


Turn, Archer, and Heed the Wild Hunt

by Mhalachai



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Foster Care, Found Family, Gen, hard of hearing character, susan's life is a ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mhalachai/pseuds/Mhalachai
Summary: In the summer of 1983, Clint Barton goes to live with his new foster mom in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. Now he just needs to figure out how negotiate this new life... and also what's up with all the strange things happening in the night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story makes passing reference to past child and domestic abuse.

It never completely gets dark on those back roads.

There are stars, deceptively few.

And velvet consumes and velvet erupts:

the softness is the leaves and the dirt paths and stables and skin. And eyes.

-[Iowa by Robbie Klein](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/iowa)

* * *

_**Summer 1983** _

Clint glared out at the passing scenery from the backseat of his social worker's old chevy. He didn't want to go to a new foster home, especially one so far away from everything – from his old school, from his friends, and from Barney. Not that he'd seen his older brother since two foster homes ago, when Barney had taken off in the night without Clint. Now Barney wouldn't be able to find Clint when he came back.

If he came back.

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. It had been two years since Mom and Dad died, and Clint had gone through five foster homes. No one wanted to adopt a ten-year-old dummy like Clint, and he kept getting punted back into the system.

No one had wanted to adopt Barney either, but Barney hadn't cared – he'd just left.

The car turned off the main road. They bumped over a narrow bridge, then rattled down a dirt road for another ten minutes through short, scrubby forest.

With every bump, Clint's stomach hurt a little more. This was so far away from _everything_. What was he going to do out here? He'd heard stories about older foster kids being adopted out to people who used them for unpaid labour, and worse stuff. Well, Clint told himself, he wasn't going to stand for that. No way. If anyone tried anything, he'd run away and try to find Barney.

And if he couldn't find Barney, then maybe he'd join the circus.

The car slowed to turn in at a driveway. In the afternoon sun, Clint could see an old farmhouse, a big barn, and an ancient old truck. A dumb-looking horse stood behind a fence.

Clint hated it.

His social worker pulled the car to a stop and turned off the engine. The man said something, indistinct and slurred. Clint didn't even bother trying to listen; he'd only get about half the words anyway.

Then the man turned around to fix Clint with a glare. "… …. … you understand?"

"Sure," Clint said. He'd been through this long enough that he knew it didn't really matter what the man had said; it was probably something like _shape up_ and _behave_.

"Get out," the man said as he turned around. Clint took a moment to stick his tongue out at the back of the man's head, then started to gather up his stuff. His clothes were in a black garbage bag, while his tattered knapsack held a few comic books and one old crossword puzzle book. After Mom and Dad died, Clint hadn't been allowed to take anything from the old house, which had gone up for auction to pay off Dad's bad debts, so he hadn't been able to go back to get his Hawkeye bear, the one Mom had given him when he was three.

It didn't matter. Clint was ten years old. He wasn't going to cry over some dumb bear.

The car door opened, and the social worker hauled Clint out of the car by his collar. Clint barely kept hold of his bags. "I'm going to tell you again," the social worker said in Clint's good ear. "This is your last chance, okay? After this, it's the orphanage for you." He gave Clint a shake.

Clint wasn't impressed. His Dad had been a master at throwing Clint and Barney around. Did this guy think that one little shake was going to mean anything to Clint? Clint kept his mouth closed and looked down at the ground.

After a minute, the social worker let Clint go. He said something that might have been _come on_ as he walked towards the house. Clint pulled on his knapsack, picked up his garbage bag, and followed.

Up close, the farmhouse was huge, painted yellow with green shutters. Clint felt very short as he climbed up the steps, because the house was so tall. It sort of looked like a normal house, Clint thought as they waited for someone to respond to the social worker's knock. Except there were little woven stick things hanging from the porch ceiling like wind chimes. And there was a cow horn stuck up over the door.

Weird.

Then the door opened and there was a lady there. She had brown hair and blue eyes and a big frown on her face. "Who's this, then?" she said as she looked at Clint.

Clint glared up at her. None of the other foster families started out frowning at him. Well, if she wasn't going to like him, he wasn't going to like her!

"… … Clint Barton." The social worker took hold of his shoulder to push him forward. Clint took two stumbling steps, then braced himself and didn't move. "Say hello … … Mrs. Pevensie."

"Hello," Clint said to the floor.

"Come inside," the lady said. Funny, how Clint could hear her voice better than the social worker's. She sounded different from his teachers too. She almost sounded like James Bond. "We'll get this … man settled."

Clint stepped into the house. It was all big and open inside, with wood beams everywhere. He'd never been in a house like this before. Back when he lived with Mom and Dad, it was just a small apartment with a bedroom for them and him and Barney sleeping in the living room. At the foster houses, they'd been small and sometimes he had to share a room. But this was a whole big house.

And it smelled good, too.

Behind him, the social worker and Mrs. Pevensie were talking. Clint inched as far into the hall as he dared, craning his neck to look around more. He didn't see any other people, but there was a big orange cat sitting in a patch of sun in one of the big rooms. It lifted its head to squint at Clint, then went back to sleep.

Clint had never lived in a house with a cat before. Maybe it would like him.

A hand descended heavily on Clint's shoulder, and he jumped and tried to pull away. It was his social worker. "Pay attention!" the man said. "I've called … twice!"

Clint twisted away and scowled at the ground.

"Maybe I … show Clint around … … time," said Mrs. Pevensie. When Clint glanced up, it was to see her and the social working looking at each other. "Thank you … … out here on … … …"

The social worker responded, but Clint didn't want to listen, so he didn't. When the man was finished, he fixed Clint with a glare, then left the house, closing the door behind him.

That left Clint and Mrs. Pevensie alone.

"… …. Your clothes?" Mrs. Pevensie asked.

Clint looked at her. What about his clothes?

Mrs. Pevensie waited for what felt like forever, but Clint didn't have anything to say. She tried again. "Laundry?" she said slowly and loudly, just like Clint was a dummy. "Do you want to wash your clothes?"

Clint felt his chest hurt and his face go red. "I'm not dirty!" he burst out, hugging the garbage bag of clothes to his chest.

Something in Mrs. Pevensie's face changed. She went to sit on the steps leading upstairs, so she was on the same level as Clint. "No, you're not dirty," she said, still speaking slow. "But we can wash your clothes before you put them in the dresser so they don't smell like a bin liner."

Clint clutched his bag to his chest tighter. He didn't know what to think about this Mrs. Pevensie lady. She had frowned at him before. But now she was just looking at him without any expression.

After a very long time, Clint slowly let his bag slide to the floor. "I guess," he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"All right." Mrs. Pevensie stood up. She didn't seem so tall now. Maybe she was at tall as Mom had been. "I'll show you the laundry." She held out her hand.

Clint looked at the hand, then back up at her face. "I'm _ten_ ," he said, "Not a _baby_."

"Ah," said Mrs. Pevensie, but she let her hand drop. "My mistake. Come with me."

Clint followed the lady through the house. The kitchen was nice and big and there was a kettle on the stove and sun shining in through the windows. There was a room with a big desk in it next, with papers everywhere. There was another cat in that room, a sleek black cat sitting on a chair.

"Hey lady, how many cats do you have?" Clint asked before he remembered his manners. And he did have manners, no matter what the social worker and his former foster parents said. He just didn't feel like using them sometimes.

Mrs. Pevensie turned around. "Four cats," she said. "Two brothers and two sisters." A shadow of something passed over her face, and Clint stood very still, just in case it was a wrong question and she got mad at him. Then the shadow went away. "And it would be easier if you called me Susan."

Clint frowned. "I can't do that. You're old."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "What, now, old ladies can't have names?"

"No, you gotta call old ladies Missus," Clint argued. "It's a rule. Everyone says."

"For starters, I'm not a missus," the lady Susan said.

Clint squinted up at her. "You're not?" he asked. "You're not married?" He had thought they only let old married people be foster parents.

"I was married, a long time ago. But now I go by Ms. Pevensie."

"How come?"

"A myriad of reasons."

"What's a mary-aid?"

"A myriad," Susan repeated. "It means a lot."

"Why'd'n't you just say that?"

Susan raised one eyebrow up high. Clint had only ever seen people do that in movies. "An expansive vocabulary is a sign of an educated mind."

"Oh." Clint slumped. He didn't have an educated mind. He didn't hear half the words people said at him, and everyone gave him baby books to read like he was a dummy.

"You'll learn." Susan put out her hand and Clint pulled away without thinking, in case she was going to grab him. But she only touched his upper arm, so gentle that Clint hardly felt it, and they walked on.

The laundry was at the back of the house. Susan took the garbage bag from Clint, and he watched her anxiously as she untied it and removed his clothing. Most of the clothes weren't even his, not really, but hand-me-downs that no one else wanted in the foster homes. But it was all he had other than what he was wearing, those three shirts and one pair of jeans and four socks and pajamas so faded that they were grey.

Susan laid out each item of clothing on top of the washing machine. "Where's the rest?" she asked.

Clint looked away, burning with shame. He'd had other clothes, but he'd grown so much in the last months that he couldn't wear them, and the foster parents he'd just left had given them to the other kids because they didn't fit Clint any more.

"…"

Clint stared down at the floor. He didn't want to look up to see what the lady was saying. He knew he was just some dummy foster kid, but when he saw that in people's faces, it made him want to crawl into a hole and hide.

"… Clint."

Susan had knelt down and was putting her fingers on the back of his hand. He wanted to go away, but where was he going to go? The social worker had said it, this was it for him. His last chance.

"Clint."

Clint sniffled and lifted his head. He didn't understand the small smile on Susan's face. It was like she was sad and happy at the same time. "Yeah?"

"Later on, I am going to tell you a story about how I went on an adventure when I was just a little bit older than you are, all right?" She waited until Clint nodded. "But I will tell you this – when we started our adventure, I only had on the clothes I was wearing, and one big coat."

Clint sniffled again. "Why didn't you take more clothes with you?" he asked.

"Because the whole thing was entirely not my idea," she said. "Now, how about we wash your clothes, and we can head into Decorah later this week to see about getting you some new underwear and socks?"

"Okay."

Susan stood up and went to the washing machine. After a second, Clint shucked off his knapsack and went to help her. He was ten years old, practically grown up, and he knew how to do laundry.

Susan helped him up on to a step stool so they could put Clint's things in the washer, and she let Clint measure in the soap flakes. She also let him turn the dial. Clint could feel the click-click-click of the knob as it rotated, and it made him smile.

Once the washing machine was on, Clint climbed down to the ground and looked at Susan. She didn't look so scary now. She didn't even look so old.

"Are you hungry?"

Clint nodded. He was always hungry. Sometimes it felt like he'd been hungry his entire life.

"Come with me."

This time, Susan didn't hold out her hand, but he followed her anyway.

They went back to the kitchen. There, two orange cats were gathered in front of the fireplace, which held glowing embers. "Who's that?" Clint asked, pointing at the cats.

"Andarta and Taranus." Susan lit the burner under the kettle.

Clint blinked. He wasn't sure if he had heard the names right. "Um."

Susan sat down at the table and gestured Clint over. He climbed up on one of the chairs, careful not to put his sneakers on the cushion. "Andarta and Taranus," Susan said again, this time writing the names down on a piece of paper. She put that in front of Clint.

"And-art-ah," Clint said. "Tar-ann-us."

"That's right." Susan pointed at one cat, the big squishy one. "That's Andarta. She's the oldest. And Taranus," she pointed at the smaller, sleeker orange cat. "He's the big brother."

"Who're the other ones?" Clint asked. "I never knew anyone with four cats before."

"The tabby you saw in the family room is Sirona," Susan said, writing the name on the paper.

"How about the black one?"

Susan's nose twitched. "That's Lavaratus." She wrote it down.

"Lav-er-uh-tus," Clint sounded out.

"And now," Susan said as the kettle began to hiss. "Lunch."

Clint sat at the table, drawing on the notepad while Susan made sandwiches. When she brought the plate over to the table, he hastily turned the page on his scribbles. The other foster parents made fun of his drawings, and he didn't want Susan to make fun of him.

She didn't say anything about the notepad. "I'm afraid I don't … any milk," she said. "Do you want tea or water?"

"Wadder," Clint said through a full mouth.

Susan's eyebrow went up again, but she returned to the table with a glass of water. She poured herself some tea and sat, watching him as he ate.

Clint didn't mind. As long as she didn't take his food away and wasn't asking him questions he didn't know how to answer, he didn't care.

He had just finished one sandwich (cheese, on brown bread, but it wasn't terrible) when the black cat sauntered into the room. The cat took in the room with a long glance, then sat down and proceeded to lick his own butt.

Clint laughed so hard he nearly choked.

Susan ignored the cat and once Clint stopped coughing, she ignored him too. She was writing on the notepad, so Clint looked around the kitchen as he finished the last bit of sandwich. There weren't any pictures of people on the walls, just old picture of flowers and stuff. The furniture looked like it was old, but nothing looked dingy or tattered, not like she'd picked it up from a yard sale or the thrift store.

"Are you rich?" Clint asked.

"No."

"Are you poor?"

"No."

"Oh." Clint had thought you had to be one or the other – he'd always been poor, and he figured when he wasn't, he'd be rich. "D'you ever be a foster parent before?"

"No."

"How come now?" Clint shoved the last crust into his mouth and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Prophecy and portents."

Clint didn't know that last word. He kicked at the leg of the chair. "Huh?"

Susan put down her pen. "Do you know what a dictionary is?"

"Yeah."

"There's a dictionary in the library," she said. "Across from where you came in, on the coffee table. Go fetch it."

Clint slid off the chair to his feet. He walked through the house back to the front door, then looked around. There was a big room with books all around it, so he went in there. On a low table was a dictionary, so he went and picked that up before looking around some more.

This was a different kind of room than the rest of the house. The stuff in this room didn't feel like it belonged to the house. Clint scratched the tip of his nose as he looked around. This was what a witch's library should look like, Clint decided after a few minutes. Why, there was even a book over there that said _Spells and Potions_ on the cover!

There were also pictures on the far wall. Clint walked over and peered at one of the old black and white photographs. In it were four kids, just a bit older than he was. Clint thought one of the kids might be Susan, with dark hair and dark eyes. But who were the others?

A low rumble pulled Clint back to himself. He looked around, wondering if one of the cats had followed him, but he was alone in the room.

A little uneasy, Clint hurried back into the kitchen. Susan didn't ask him why he took so long, only pushed over the notepad. "That's what I said." She pointed to the word _portent_. "Look it up."

Clint dug into the dictionary as Susan cleared the table. "P-O-R-T…" Clint said to himself as he flipped the pages. "E-N-T." He read the definition, then read it again. He sat back in his chair, looked down at where the black cat Lavaratus was sitting in the sun, and then at Susan. "Are you a witch?" Clint demanded.

Susan didn't look up from the sink. "No."

"Are you _sure_?"

"Yes." Susan held out her hand. "Bring over your water glass."

Clint carried over the glass, keeping a wary eye on Susan. "If you're not a witch, how come you said that thing about port-ends?"

"Portents," Susan echoed. She ran the soapy washcloth over the glass. "An extremely long time ago, a centaur told me that when my oldest grandchild was eight years old, I should foster a young lord."

Clint's mouth dropped open. He wasn't sure he entirely understood all that she said, but one thing did stand out. "Wait, do you got a grandkid? Are you a _grandma_?"

Susan looked down at him. "That's your take-away?" She rinsed the glass and put it into the sink. "Yes, I have grandchildren."

"Wow," Clint said in awe. "I knew you were old, but not _that_ old."

Susan's eyebrow went up as she wiped her hands on a dishcloth. "Do you want to see a picture of them?"

"Okay."

"Come on." Susan walked towards the office. Andarta jumped up from the hearth and followed her. Clint brought up the rear.

In the office, Susan sat at the desk and motioned for Clint to come around to her side. Once he was there, she pointed at one of the framed photos by the lamp. "These are my children," she said. "They're all grown-up now."

Clint stared at the three people in the photograph. They looked like they were teenagers and they were dressed in real funny clothes. "What are their names?"

"Sandra, Derek and Vincent."

"What about that?" Clint asked, pointing at another photo.

Susan picked it up. "That's my daughter Sandra with my granddaughter, Laura, when Laura was two. She's eight now."

Clint looked at the little baby in the photo. She looked like all babies, all squishy and pink and chubby. "Do they live here?"

"No, they live in Maine. But they will visit later in the summer. The other grandchildren are in London with Derek. I see them occasionally."

Clint wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Oh." Then he thought some more. "So a centaur told you to be a foster parent?"

"Yes." Susan set the photo back in place on the desk.

"That sounds made-up. Centaurs aren't real."

"I assure you, I do not make things up." Susan stood. "Time to change the laundry. Come along."

Only a little reluctantly, Clint tagged along. This Susan lady was weird. She seemed like a witch, even if she said she wasn't one. She had all those weird books, and talked about centaurs, and had the little stick bundles out on the porch.

But even if she was weird, she wasn't bad. She hadn't hit him, or yelled at him, or treated him like a dummy. She'd made him lunch and talked about her cats.

Maybe this foster home wouldn't be _so_ terrible.

* * *

Late that night, Clint lay in the soft bed, the sheets and his pajamas smelling like unfamiliar laundry soap, and stared out the window at the darkness.

It was so _quiet_ here. He was used to crowded homes with lots of people, of sharing rooms with other foster kids. Here, it was so quiet that he felt like he was in a warm silent cocoon.

It was so quiet he couldn't sleep.

He looked at the clock. Eleven forty-seven. He had been in bed since eight-thirty, after dinner and a bath and Susan told him to get into his pajamas so she could take the clothes he was wearing down to the laundry. He'd read his comic books over twice before it was nine, then Susan told him to turn off the light and get some sleep.

And he had been lying here ever since.

The faint warmth that had been sitting in his stomach since before dinner had started to fade away. Now, it was just him in a dark room.

He missed Barney.

He missed Mom.

He missed Hawkeye Bear.

Clint rolled onto his back. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he wasn't going to cry. He was a big boy and he wasn't some kind of crybaby.

Frustrated with himself, Clint sat up. He didn't think he could turn on a light to read, because Susan would see. But he felt so wide awake he knew he wasn't going to be able to fall asleep.

Moving as quietly as he could, Clint slid off the bed and tiptoed to the window. The crescent moon hung heavy over the slope of the hill outside, and Clint could see the trees reaching out down the valley, fog curling around the black branches.

Wait.

Something was moving outside.

Clint narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out the shape in the darkness, winding around the trees. It looked like a cat, but bigger.

Clint kept watching. The big cat wound its way around the base of the old oak tree and then crouched in the shadows. Clint couldn't see its face, but he _knew_ it was looking up at him.

Pressing his nose to the window pane, Clint strained to see.

Suddenly, something huge burst up out of the night and flew right at his window!

Clint screamed and fell back, hands covering his face. He hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him. He scrambled back until his shoulder hit the wall, his heart pounding.

What _was_ that?

The door to his bedroom opened and the light went on. "Clint?"

Clint pulled his legs up to his chest, suddenly panicking. He hadn't meant to make any noise, hadn't meant to wake anyone up, hadn't meant to be out of bed!

But Susan didn't look angry. "Clint, what happened?" she asked, kneeling down beside him. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Gulping in air, Clint shook his head.

"Okay," Susan said. "It's okay. Can you stand up?"

Clint nodded.

"Let's try, then." She held out her hand. Clint took it and stood up, feeling shaky. His heart was still beating fast.

Susan got to her feet, tightening the belt of her big fuzzy robe. "Do you want to go back to bed?"

Clint shook his head vehemently.

"… … hot cocoa?"

"What's that?" Clint asked

"It's like hot chocolate."

Clint frowned up at her, distracted at last from the scary things he'd seen outside. "But it's late." He looked at the clock. "It's _tomorrow_."

"Sometimes when you're up past midnight, a hot drink is in order."

"Okay," Clint said. He rubbed his eyes.

"Let's go." Susan picked up a blanket from the floor, one of the pretty hand-knit ones, and wrapped it around Clint's shoulders before they walked down the stairs. The house was quiet, with all four cats sleeping in a pile on the couch in the main room. Susan turned on the light and went to the stove while Clint climbed up in a chair, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Susan asked.

Clint shrugged. "I couldn't sleep," he said, watching Susan carefully to see if he was in trouble.

"That happens sometimes," she said. "Especially when one has the weight of the world on one's shoulders."

Clint wrinkled his nose at her. "Huh?"

Susan went over to the cupboard and pulled out a tin. "It's hard to sleep when you're worried," she said once she had turned around again to face Clint.

"Oh. Yeah."

Susan measured something out the tin and put it in a saucepan. "Do you want to … … … thinking?"

Clint stuck his fingers through the holes in the blanket. "I dunno."

"Okay."

Clint watched Susan as she stirred and stirred at the pot. She didn't seem mad at him, but maybe if he said he was out of bed, she might get mad? He didn't know what to do. He was tired and still a little scared.

Maybe, if he told her, she wouldn't be mad at him?

Susan poured the stuff in the saucepan into two mugs, and brought those over to the table. She put one in front of Clint before sitting down across from him.

"Thank you," Clint said.

"You're welcome." Susan stared at Clint. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Clint pulled the mug closer and sniffed at it. Chocolatey. He sipped carefully because he could feel how hot it was. It was _so good_. None of his foster parents ever made him hot cocoa before when he woke them up. Mostly, they just yelled.

"Clint."

Clint sipped again. "I was at the window and something flew right at me and I got scared," he said to the tabletop.

"It was probably an owl," Susan said. "They're often about at night. Although not usually so close to the house."

"Maybe it got scared by the cat," Clint suggested before slurping more cocoa.

"The cat?"

"Yeah, there was a big cat out under the oak tree," Clint said. "Bigger than Andarta. Really big."

He didn't understand why Susan sat back, or why she got so pale. "A big cat," she repeated. "Was it— Under the oak?"

"Yeah," Clint said in a small voice. The expression on Susan's face made him feel scared all of a sudden.

"I…" Her voice trailed off, then she stood up. "Clint, stay in the house."

Since Clint had no plans to leave the house, he just stared at her.

"Stay in the house until I get back," she said. Moving quickly, she unbelted her fuzzy robe and let it slide off her shoulders. She was wearing thick flannel pajamas underneath, and for a fleeting moment Clint wished he had warm pajamas like that. "I'll be back," Susan said again before stalking out of the kitchen.

Clint slid off his chair and ran after her. He found Susan by the front door, jamming her feet into rubber boots. "Why are you going out?" he asked.

"I have to see—" She stopped. "I have to make sure the horse is safe in the barn."

Clint hunched into his blanket.

Susan went over to a closet door in the wall and opened it. She reached in and pulled out a long thin bag on a leather strap, which she slung over her shoulder. Then she brought out a weird looking flat piece of wood and a long string. As Clint watched, Susan threaded one end of the string over one end of the wood, then bent the wood back to loop the strong onto the other end.

"That's bows and arrows!" Clint blurted out. Susan looked at him. "Like Robin Hood!"

"Something like that," Susan said. With the bow in her right hand, she pulled an arrow out of the bag and held it loose in her left. "Clint, stay inside. Stay safe. And close the door behind me."

"Okay."

Susan unlocked the big bolts and then opened the door. She was standing different than she had before, her body tense, her shoulders straight. As soon as she was outside, she put the arrow up to the bow and was off into the darkness.

Clint closed the door behind her, then ran to the living room to peer out the window. He couldn't see anything in the dark. Was she going to be okay? What if the big cat was still around? What if it came out to eat her all up?

A soft _mrow_ as Sirona jumped up beside Clint. She rubbed her head on his cheek, then jumped down. Clint followed her back to the couch and sat beside the cats to wait.

"Susan went outside," Clint whispered to the small cat, who blinked up at him lazily. "She took a bow and arrow."

Sirona yawned, kneading her paws against his leg.

"Okay." Clint scratched the top of her head. She curled up on his lap and went to sleep, a warm little purring bundle.

Clint waited for Susan to come back in, trying desperately to fight off his exhaustion. The hands on the big clock in the corner went around and around, and the little hand was almost on the one before the front door opened.

Jerking all the way awake, Clint stared in terror at the door. What if it was the big cat? What if it knew how to open doors?

But it was only Susan. Moving slowly, she closed the door, locked all the locks, then unhooked the string off the bow and put it on the bench by the door. She came into the main room, lifting the bag of arrows off her shoulder as she walked.

"Did you find it?" Clint asked.

Susan shook her head. She sat on the edge of the coffee table, her elbows on her knees, as she stared down at the arrow bag for a long time. Then she lifted her head and looked at Clint. "Have you ever held a bow?"

Clint shook his head. Susan drew one arrow out of the bag. It had a long brown shaft, with creamy feathers on one end and a sharp pointy silver tip on the other.

"I was just a little bit older than you when I got my first bow," Susan said. She rolled the arrow in her fingers, the tip catching the light. "From Father Christmas."

Clint looked from the arrow to Susan. "Is he like Santa Claus?"

If anything, the question made Susan look even more tired. "Something like that." She put the arrow on the table beside her, then reached out to take Clint's hands. "Clint, I need to you listen to me, all right?"

Clint nodded.

"If you ever see that big cat again, don't follow it. It's dangerous."

"Do you know what it is?" Clint asked.

Susan pushed her lips together for a moment. "I might, and I hope to god that I'm wrong," she said. "And if I'm wrong, then any large cat would be dangerous for you out there. Can you promise me that you won't follow it?"

Clint squirmed under her gaze. "Okay," he said, pulling his hands away. "How come?"

"What?"

"How come it's dangerous?"

Susan rubbed her eyes. "If you follow it, it might turn on you and hurt you. I don't want you hurt."

"Oh." Clint put his hand on Sirona's back. He could feel her purr vibrate up his arm. "Okay." He yawned.

"It's late," Susan said. "Back to bed with you."

"I don't want to go back up there," Clint protested sleepily. "It's too quiet."

Susan stood. "Do you want to stay down here with the cats?"

"Uh huh."

Gently, Susan lifted Sirona off Clint's lap and set her down with her siblings. "Curl up, then," Susan told Clint. Clint slumped over, letting Susan wrap the blanket over his feet. "Get some sleep."

Clint closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. It wasn't quiet down here, not really – he could distantly make out the rumble of the fridge and the purring of the cats, and the rhythmic tick-tick of the clock.

He fell asleep, and dreamed about big cats walking in the dark among the trees.

* * *

In the morning, Clint work up alone. He dragged himself into the kitchen, to find the cats had relocated themselves in front of the fire. Susan was at the kitchen table, staring into a cup of coffee.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning," Clint mumbled. He sat in the chair across from her, and let his head fall to the table.

"… … porridge?"

"Okay," Clint said without lifting his head.

A bowl appeared in his line of sight. "Eat up."

Clint sat up reluctantly. He was used to oatmeal in his foster homes. Making a face, he started eating.

He hated oatmeal.

Susan returned to the table, carrying a small jar and a bottle. "That hungry?"

Clint eyed her with a mouthful of oatmeal.

"I thought you might like some cream and sugar." She set down the jar and bottle, and returned to her seat.

Clint eyed the jar warily. She was going to let him have sugar? Carefully he pulled over the sugar, and put one scoop of it into his bowl. He glanced up, but Susan didn't say anything.

He added a second scoop. Then a third.

Susan was watching him with amusement. "Why don't you try tasting it before you add any more?" she suggested.

"Okay." Clint put the sugar scoop back into the jar, then stirred his porridge around and took a bite.

Regular oatmeal might taste like dirty sneakers, but oatmeal with sugar was _good_.

"Add some cream," Susan said as Clint tackled his bowl. "It'll get you through the morning."

Clint poured cream into his bowl, not spilling a single drop even though it was the first time he'd seem cream in a bottle before. Then he dove back into eating. After his long night, he was _starving_.

Susan sat and drank her coffee. When Clint's bowl was empty, she got him seconds without him even having to ask.

When he was done, he scraped his spoon over the bottom of the bowl to get the last of the sugar up. He felt full, and he'd had sugar, and it was _great_.

"Clint."

Clint looked up, licking his spoon.

"How would you feel about heading into town today? We can pick up some clothes and get you a library card."

Clint froze mid-lick. "A library card?" he said, dropping the spoon into his bowl. "I never had a library card before!"

Susan stood. "Run upstairs and change and we'll leave after we feed the horse."

"Okay!" Clint shouted, and ran out of the kitchen. He bolted up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. On the bed lay the clothes he'd worn the day before, all clean and dry.

Moving fast, in case Susan changed her mind, Clint pulled off his worn grey pajamas and yanked on his underwear and socks, then shimmied into his jeans and the black t-shirt with only one little hole under the arm and the threads coming loose at the collar. If he wore his jacket, no one would see the threads.

Leaving his knapsack on the floor by the bed, Clint pelted downstairs.

Susan was in the front hall, putting on her boots. "Come along," she said. "No time to waste."

Clint jammed his feet into his sneakers and ran after Susan. Outside, the sun was just starting to rise over the trees in the valley. "What's that?" Clint asked, pointing.

"Apple orchard," Susan said. "… far as you can see."

"Are you an apple farmer?"

"No."

Clint hopped along. "What are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do you do?" Clint waited while Susan pulled open a small door in the barn. "Are you a teacher?"

"No. Go get that pail over there, the white one."

Clint ran over to the side of the barn. He picked up the white pail and lugged it over to where Susan was lifting down a big bundle of hay. "I got it!"

He watched Susan spread the hay out in a long trough before she opened the horse's door. The horse was big and tall, a lot taller than Susan, and he was grey with white spots like snowflakes all over.

"What's his name?" Clint asked as the horse lowered his head to bite at the hay.

"Destrier." Susan pried the lid off the white pail. "It means noble horse."

Clint eyed Destrier. He didn't look very noble to Clint.

"Go over there and turn on the tap," Susan said. Clint ran over and turned the tap as hard as he could. Water gushed out and a little got on his shoes, but most went into the water tub.

Clint beamed. He was helping!

As Destrier ate hay, Susan put the pail back against the wall, then she came over to turn off the water before the tub overflowed. "All right, let's go."

"Bye Destrier!" Clint called. The horse ignored him. "Does he stay here all day?"

"Yes," Susan said. She opened the big door at the far end of the barn and went outside. Clint ran after her. Susan ducked through a hole in the wooden fence outside, and Clint followed. "Into the truck, I'll be right back."

Clint ran over to the old truck. It took him two tries to open the heavy door, but he managed it. The seat was mended in a few spots, and one of the springs stuck up uncomfortably, but that was okay. Clint sat and looked out through the windshield. He could see Susan going into the house, leaving the door open behind her.

Clint looked around some more, his eyes finally coming to a stop on the old oak tree. He bit his lower lip. Susan had told him to get in the truck. But, he reasoned, she didn't say he had to _stay_ in the truck.

Quickly, he got out and ran over to where he had seen the big cat the night before.

Most of the ground under the oak was hard. But around the side of the tree, on the path up into the wooded hill above, was one large cat print.

Clint stared at the print. It must have been a _huge_ cat, to have made such a big mark behind. Clint squatted down to put both his hands down into the middle of the print, and there was still lots of room to spare.

Suddenly uneasy, Clint stood up. He wasn't sure that he wanted to be out here, in case the big cat came back.

"Clint?" he heard Susan yell. With a yelp, Clint dashed back over to the truck and climbed inside. Susan closed the big door behind him before heading around to the driver's side. She climbed in and closed her door, but she didn't turn the key in the ignition. "What were you doing?"

"Looking around," Clint said. He wiped his dusty hands on his clean jeans. "Is Destrier going to be okay if we leave him here?"

"Yes."

"What about if that big cat comes back?"

"It won't." The finality in Susan's voice made Clint sit back. "Now, the truck is very loud. Is that all right?"

"Uh huh."

Susan turned the key, and the engine roared to life. Clint made a face at the noise as the truck bounced down the driveway. They drove a different way than when the social worker brought Clint to Susan's house, and he looked around with interest. There were some trees, and lots of wide-open fields. The sky was blue and huge overhead.

Clint squinted out at the horizon. There, a few large birds circled in an updraft. Clint liked birds. He'd done a project in school on eagles, and he knew all about them.

Maybe when they were at the library, Clint could get a book on birds to read.

The drive wasn't long. Soon, they were passing a big water tower, and then houses. They drove over a bridge and then there were red brick buildings and lots of cars. Susan pulled the truck up to the curb, parked, and finally turned off the engine.

Clint's ears rang in the stillness.

"Okay?" Susan asked from what sounded like a long way away.

Clint waggled his jaw. It didn't help his ears. "Okay," he said anyway, because he was used to his ears ringing.

They got out of the truck, and Clint managed to close his own door this time. It was heavy.

Susan put her hand on Clint's back, but gently, not like the social worker or his former foster father, and guided them both towards a store with clothes hanging in the window. Clint made another face. He was used to this, having to go into shops with his foster moms and then not say anything or touch anything for _hours_.

It was so boring.

Inside, the shop was full of clothes racks. Everyone looked around when Susan and Clint came in, and Clint felt himself shrink back under the scrutiny.

Maybe he could ask Susan if he could wait in the truck.

But Susan just hauled him on forward until they were at the counter. A large and short old lady (really old, not just Susan-old) adjusted her glasses as she peered down at Clint. "Can I help you?" the lady said.

"I hope so," Susan said, her accent suddenly crisp and chill, in a way that drilled into Clint's bones even though she spoke quietly. "My nephew has come to stay with me and there's been a _dreadful_ incident with the airlines. They lost all his luggage, and all I had for him were some hand-me-downs. Could you help us?"

The old woman's expression changed from judgement to sympathy in an instant. "Of course, my dear," she said, bustling around the counter. When she wasn't facing him, Clint couldn't understand what she was saying, but he didn't need to as she guided him and Susan towards a section with kids' clothes. Susan was all business, holding up shirts and pants to measure them against Clint, then herding him towards a change room at the back.

When the old woman had finally gone, Susan crouched down. "You can try on what you want," she said, back to her normal voice. It was a lot warmer. "What about shorts for summer?"

"Okay," Clint said, confused. "Um." He looked over all the shirts. He liked most of them, but if he had to pick one, he wanted one that would last a long time. "That one." He pointed at something that he knew would be too big for him, so he could grow into it.

Susan looked at the shirt, then at him. Something in her face shifted. "Anything else?"

Clint shook his head.

Susan sat on the chair in the dressing room. "Clint, you know, I think you're going to be with me for a while," she said. Clint stared at her. "Is that okay with you?"

Clint nodded hard. He had only been with Susan for a day, and already she was the best foster parent he'd ever had.

"And if that's so, you're going to need at least enough clothes for the summer. Shirts, shorts. Maybe a pair of trousers."

Clint scratched his cheek. "I don't have any money."

"I do." Susan's voice was mild.

"But you said you weren't rich."

She opened her mouth, closed it, then nodded. "I did say that, didn't I?" She rubbed her hand over her face. "Clint, one of these days I am going to tell you a long story about something that happened to me when I was closer to your age, when I had to go live in the country. But right now, I am going to say that we're buying you enough clothing so I only have to do laundry once a week."

Clint looked around at the pile of clothing on the chair beside Susan. "But what if I can't wear it anymore?" he whispered. "What if I grow up?"

Susan reached out and brushed the hair back from Clint's forehead. Her touch was soft, just like Mom's had been. There was a lump in Clint's throat.

"Growing up is part of living," Susan said quietly. "Never be ashamed of growing up, Clint. It's how we know we're alive." She cleared her throat. "Now, if we get through all this mess, we can go and have lunch. Do you like hamburgers?"

Clint looked at Susan. "I love hamburgers," he whispered, and was delighted when Susan smiled at him.

"All right, then we have a battle strategy. Let's begin."

Trying on clothing was almost as boring as being made to sit and touch nothing, but Clint persevered, bolstered by the promise of a hamburger. Susan got him three t-shirts and two nice shirts with buttons, two pairs of jeans, a pair of black pants that were stiff and itched, and three pairs of shorts.

At the register, Susan added a plastic pack of underpants to the clothing pile. "Clint, go get some socks," she instructed, so Clint trudged over to the wall that held socks. He plucked down a bag of white sports socks that were in his size, then kept looking. There was a pair of really cool purple and black socks, but the price tag said they were a _whole five dollars_. If Clint had five dollars, he certainly wasn't going to spend it on _socks_.

A hint of movement caught his eye and he turned. There was a girl standing there, watching him without moving.

"Hi," Clint said. The girl didn't move. She was shorter than he was, and probably about the same age. He was certain that he had never met her before, but she looked familiar in a way he couldn't place.

"Clint!"

Clint looked around at Susan's call. She was beckoning him over to the register. Clint turned to say goodbye to the girl, but she had vanished.

Weird.

Clint carried his sports socks over to Susan, who plopped them down next to the underwear. He watched as the old woman folded everything up small, then put it into really nice bags, a lot nicer than the K-Mart bags he was used to. Susan rested her hand on his shoulder while she chatted with the old woman, but it wasn't a heavy hand at all.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

After lunch in a noisy diner, during which Clint had had a hamburger and French fries with lots of ketchup, they put the bags into the truck and drove to the library.

The library was in a large stone building, and when Clint walked inside, he felt the quiet wash over him in a whoosh.

Susan led him up to the front desk. "Hello," she said to the librarian. "I would … to get … young man a library card."

Clint, who had never been called a young man when he wasn't in trouble, beamed.

The librarian asked Susan a bunch of questions, most of which Clint couldn't understand, so he looked around. He hadn't been to many libraries in his life. When he lived with Mom and Dad, Mom was always too busy working to take Clint and Barney to the library, and he knew better than to ask Dad. The foster parents were all too busy. His school library was depressing, with old books missing pages.

This place seemed nice.

Susan tapped his arm to get his attention. "Sign the card," she instructed, and Clint was looking at a little cardboard card that had his name and an address on it. Was that Susan's address? Was that where he lived now?

Carefully, Clint signed his full name, _Clint Francis Barton_ , in tiny letters on the line.

The librarian took it back, stamped it, and solemnly handed it back over. Clint thanked her, putting the card in his pocket as Susan led him into the main library hall.

"The children's and teen's books are over there," Susan said, pointing at a corner. "I have to go find something, but I'll meet you by the teen books in ten minutes, all right?"

"Okay," Clint said, and walked as fast as he could over to the place she had indicated.

They had so many books! Some books he'd read before, and a whole bunch he hadn't. He picked up a book from a table under a sign, "Time for Adventure!" and looked at it. _The Hobbit_ was a weird title, but the blurb on the back seemed interesting. Clint tucked the book under his arm and kept on looking. He picked up _Conan the Usurper_ , which had a picture of a guy about to be eaten by a snake, which was neat. Moving on to another display, this one for "Tales of Mystery!", he was reading the summary blurb for an Edgar Allen Poe book when someone suddenly said "Hey!" right in his ear.

Clint jerked back. There was a big kid standing right beside him, with a big ugly face. At the same moment, someone behind Clint knocked the books out from under his arm.

Heart racing, Clint went up on the balls of his feet. He had never seen these kids before, but he knew how this went, had been through it at his school and in his foster homes. Outnumber the new kid and push him around.

If Clint had been unfamiliar with these tactics, or if he was a little boy who didn't have any sense, he'd have bent down to pick up the books. But that would probably end with him 'accidentally' getting kicked in the ribs, so he stayed on his feet. He did take one step to the side so he could keep eyes on both the ugly kid and the kid behind him, who was even uglier.

"They don't let homeless people into the library," sneered the ugly kid. "You gotta leave."

"Yeah, get out," echoed the uglier kid.

Clint shrugged. "Nah," he said, bending his knees ever-so-slightly in case either of them threw a punch. "I'm staying."

"I'll call the cops. My dad's a cop. He'll arrest you for fragrancy."

"Can't," Clint said, even though he had no idea what the kid was talking about. "I got a library card and everything."

A shadow fell over Clint and he had a moment to see both ugly kids go pale before he turned around. It was Susan, and she looked _mad_. "Is there any trouble?" she said in her icy voice.

"No," mumbled the ugly kid. The uglier kid said nothing.

"I saw that you knocked Clint's books out of his hand," she went on. "Perhaps one of you would be so good as to pick them up."

The boys exchanged a look, then the uglier kid knelt down to gather up Clint's books. He held them out to Susan with a muttered "Sorry."

"You'd best be off before anyone thinks you're up to mischief," Susan went on, and under the weight of her stare, the two boys bolted.

Susan transferred her stare to Clint. "I didn't do anything!" he protested in a whisper.

"I know. Do you have enough?" she asked.

Clint grabbed the Poe book from the table. "Maybe I can get another one too?" he asked, sure he was pushing his luck.

"I have an idea," Susan said. "With me." They went to the grown-up side of the library, where Susan steered him to a tall shelf. She pulled down three volumes. "How about these?"

Clint looked at the colorful covers. One was about Greek gods, one was on ancient Egypt, and one promised Celtic myths. They looked pretty neat.

"All right," Susan said, dumping the books into Clint's arms. He staggered a bit under their combined weight. "We'll come back next week for new ones, how does that sound?"

That sounded all right to Clint.

Susan drove home with the radio on, and Clint read the first story in his Greek mythology book in a warm haze of noise until the bouncing of the truck made him queasy and he had to look out the window. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, big puffy grey ones.

Clint wondered if it was going to rain.

When the truck pulled up in front of the house, Destrier was in the fenced area, looking bored. Susan turned off the truck and handed Clint her keychain. "Take your books up to your room," she said. "I need to get the horse into the barn before the storm arrives."

"Okay," Clint called. He was out of the truck and halfway across the yard before Susan had even opened her door.

Inside the house, the air was heavy and flat. Clint raced up the stairs, chucked his books onto his bed, and then ran back down the stairs again. He could see Susan in the yard, trying to coax the horse into the barn. He hurried back to the truck, grabbed all the bags with his new clothes in them, and then ran back into the house.

Clint said hello to Taranus and Andarta, who were sprawled on the couch, and to Sirona, who was on the kitchen table. Making his way to the laundry room, he dumped the clothes bags onto the floor in front of the washing machine and ducked back into the kitchen.

Where was Lavaratus?

Clint poked around all the rooms on the main level. No sign of the black cat in the office, or the main room. He was about to go into the library when the front door opened and Susan came inside. "Is everything all right?" she asked when she saw his face.

"I can't find Lavaratus," Clint said.

"Ah." Susan sat on the bench to unlace her boots. "He's … … the books."

"Why?"

"Something about how old paper … …think." Susan kicked of her boots and stood. "Let's go find him."

She headed into the library room, Clint at her heels. Sure enough, Lavaratus was perched on a stack of books, clawing at another book's cover.

"Oh, you terrible thing," Susan scolded. Lavaratus jumped out of her reach, turned around to hiss, then bolted out of the room.

"Did he pee on it?" Clint asked, wrinkling his nose.

"No, just scratched the hell out of it." Susan examined the book for damage, muttering to herself. Clint, not sure of what to do, looked around the room. The only thing that had changed in the room was the photograph of the four children. It hung crooked, even though it was high enough up the wall that the cats couldn't have moved it.

Clint walked over to the wall with the idea of straightening the frame for Susan, when he looked at the children again and forgot what he was doing.

Of the two girls in the photograph, the one with lighter hair looked a whole lot like the girl in the clothing store.

Clint was frowning at the photo when something touched his back. He jumped and spun around, feeling guilty even though he hadn't done anything.

"What are you doing?" Susan asked.

"It was crooked," Clint said when he found his voice.

"It does that." Slowly, Susan took the photograph down off the wall and stared at it for a long moment.

"Who's in it?" Clint asked when Susan made no signs of moving. "Is that you?"

"Yes." Susan sank onto the large armchair by the window, not minding the stack of books already there digging into her side. She stared some more, before taking a deep breath. "Yes," she said again. "Do you want to see?"

Clint edged closer. Susan moved over to offer some space on the chair and Clint sat beside her. The photograph was faded around the edges, and one corner had some water stains mottling the surface. But the faces of the four children were clear.

Clint looked between the photograph and Susan. She was a kid in the picture, and now she was a grown-up old lady, but her face was still the same.

Only now, she was so _sad_.

Susan gave Clint a faint smile. "This is me with my brothers and sister," she said. "That's me, and Peter," she pointed at the older boy with light hair, "And Edmund," this time indicating the boy with dark hair. "And my little sister, Lucy."

Clint stared at the image of the child, so very much like that of the girl he had seen in the store in town, and he shivered. "How old were you?"

"Twelve, going on thirty," Susan said. She touched the glass over Lucy's face. "This was taken after we got back."

"Got back from where?"

Susan glanced at Clint. She seemed startled for a moment, which Clint thought was unfair because he had been sitting right there the entire time. "Back from the country," Susan said, and the words sounded hollow. "We were sent off to the country during the war, to be safe from the bombing."

"Huh," Clint said, because he watched the TV news sometimes with his foster families and he knew about wars and bombing and stuff. "Did it work? Were you safe?"

"I've never been sure," Susan said, her eyes once more on the picture.

Clint leaned against Susan's arm to get a better look. The siblings didn't resemble each other much. Clint looked more like Barney, than any of those kids looked alike. He wondered where they were now. They'd be old, like Susan.

"Do they live around here?" he asked after a minute.

Susan let out a breath. "No," and the word felt heavy on Clint's shoulders. "They all died in a train crash. A very long time ago."

A familiar sadness rose up in Clint's chest. He wasn't sure that he missed Dad much, but he missed his Mom, and she had died a very long time ago, too, almost two years.

Looking at Susan, Clint could see she was really sad. Maybe like Clint would be sad, too, if anything happened to Barney and Clint was all alone in the world. He wiggled closer to Susan. "My parents died in a car crash."

Susan blinked up at Clint. Some of the sadness in her face shifted around. When she said, "I know, darling," Clint felt a lump in his throat, and all of a sudden he missed Mom and Barney and Hawkeye Bear so very much.

But he wasn't going to cry. Only babies cried, and Clint wasn't a baby. He forced all those sad feelings down into his stomach just like he always did. He was a big boy, ten years old. Ten-year-old boys didn't cry. Ten-year-old boys were men, and that meant they didn't have many feelings, and that they were really tough and fixed things. Clint didn't feel very tough, and he sometimes had more feelings than he wanted to, but maybe at least he could do something to help Susan, who had been nice to him and bough him new clothes and got him a library card and let him have a whole hamburger all to himself at lunch.

Maybe he could do something so she didn't feel so sad.

"Do you need a hug?" Clint asked.

Susan hesitated for a moment. "Are you offering one?"

"Yeah," Clint said, sitting up tall. "So you'll feel better."

"All right." Susan put the photograph face-down on a stack of books beside the chair, then leaned over to put her arms around Clint. Clint hugged her back, as strong as he could, because big hugs were the best hugs, that's what he remembered. No one had given Clint a hug in a really long time, not since his parents' funeral, but he still remembered.

Susan's hug was nice, Clint decided. Her hug was big, all warm and solid, like Mom's hugs used to be.

Clint swallowed hard. The big ball of sad feelings sat like a rock in his stomach and he hated it, hated that his parents were dead, hated that he was a foster kid, hated that Barney had run away and left Clint behind.

He hated that he was all alone.

"It's okay," Susan whispered. She put her hand on the back of Clint's head. "You're going to be okay."

Clint closed his eyes. He was trying to make sure Susan wasn't sad, he reminded himself. "You too," he said. What was it that one not-so-dumb social worker had said, a very long time ago just after the funeral? "It's okay to be sad sometimes."

"You're ab… right." Susan sat back, and Clint let go of her reluctantly. He sniffed hard and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It's okay to be sad sometimes." She brushed his hair back on his forehead. "You know, I think it's time for tea."

Clint pulled a face.

"Maybe something else." Susan stood up, offering her hand. Clint took it to haul himself upright. "How about some more hot cocoa? You didn't get to finish your mug last night."

"Yes please," Clint said. "That was really good stuff."

"Do you want to learn how to make it?" Susan asked.

In spite of everything, Clint found that he was smiling, just a little. "Yeah!"

"All right, off we go." Susan put her hand on his back, and off they went, leaving the photograph lying face-down on the stack of books.

* * *

After lunch, Clint brought his Greek mythology book down to the main room to read with the cats piled up around him, while Susan moved around the house. Clint got so taken up with the stories in the book that he didn't realize how much time was passing, and soon he had finished the last chapter.

Blinking hard, Clint looked around the room as he put the book down. The shadows were starting to reach long, and his legs were stiff and he really had to pee.

"Get off me, Andarta," Clint said to the orange cat on his legs. Andarta yawned. Clint wiggled his foot free, managed to stand up on shaky legs, and went off to the bathroom.

After he was done and had washed his hands, Clint stood in the hallway and wondered what he should do now. Maybe he could go back and read his book again? All those stories were so neat, with heroes who saved the day. Someone should make a comic book with those stories, Clint decided, and then everyone could read them, even kids who didn't like books.

Scratching his nose, Clint went in search of Susan.

He found her in the office between the kitchen and the laundry room, writing. She glanced up as he entered the room. "Hello."

"Hi." Clint climbed up into the armchair by the window. "I finished my book."

"Did you?" Susan moved papers around. "Did you like it?"

"Yeah. I liked the one about Theseus and the minotaur." Clint bounced his knee, considering. "But I don't think Zeus was a very good guy."

Susan sat back in her chair. "That's a commonly held opinion among scholars," she said dryly. Clint looked at her, not sure if she was making fun of him. "Are you done reading for the day?"

"Maybe." Clint leaned sideways so he was hanging over the chair's arm. "Can I go outside and feed Destrier?" he asked hopefully.

"Destrier doesn't need more food," Susan countered. She pushed away from her desk. "But if you want, I can show you around the forest preserve before dinner."

"Okay!" Clint half-rolled, half-slid to his feet. "What's for dinner?"

"How do you feel about spaghetti?"

"With sauce and cheese?" Clint asked hopefully.

"Yes." Susan shooed Clint out into the hallway. "Would you be able to help me make it?"

"Oh yeah!" Clint hopped toward the front door. "I used to make dinner all the time for the other kids, I'm real good at cooking."

"It's an important skill, being able to take care of one's self," Susan agreed. "Shoes and a jacket, it's chilly out."

While Clint pulled on his sneakers, Susan shrugged into her coat, then pulled her bow out of the closet. Clint paused in tying his sneaker to watch her. "How come you're gonna bring that?" he asked.

Susan focused on putting the string on the bow. "If we go near the forest preserve, it's best to be prepared." She gave the string a pull, and it twanged. "Do you want to carry the quiver?"

"Yes," Clint breathed, even though he didn't know what that was. Susan solemnly handed over the bag of arrows, which Clint slung over his shoulder. He felt very grown-up and responsible, to carry Susan's arrows for her.

Off they went, heading up the small hill behind the house. The trees weren't too tall, and the ground crunched gently under their feet. The sun was sinking low between the clouds, making everything shine golden and warm.

As they walked, Susan asked Clint more about what he had been reading, so Clint told her about his idea of making a comic book. She agreed that that was a good idea.

"I can't draw," Clint said, scrabbling over a log. "Otherwise I'd make one myself. I could do that, make a comic."

"I have a feeling that you can do anything you set your mind to," Susan said. She stepped gracefully over the log, walking like she was almost floating over the forest floor.

"I don't know," Clint hedged. Unwanted memories of being told he was a dummy, that he was good for nothing, was nothing more than goddamn nuisance, echoed in his brain. Clint turned away from Susan to rub at his eyes, wishing all those bad thoughts would go away.

"Clint."

Clint set his shoulders before turning around. Susan had seated herself on a large rock, her bow resting against her knee. "What?" Clint asked gruffly.

"Are you all right?"

Clint nodded, sniffing hard. He wasn't sure he liked how much Susan was looking at him, like she could see into his head and hear his memories.

He didn't want Susan to know he was such a dumb kid.

"Do you want to learn how to shoot a bow?"

Clint's mouth fell open. "Really?" he asked, and his words came out in a squeak. "With real arrows?"

"Yes."

"I sure do!"

"Then come on." Susan held out her hand. "There's a secret spot that I like to go for target practice. Want me to show you?"

Clint was so excited, he hardly noticed as Susan took his hand and guided him up into the thicker parts of the forest. He was going to learn how to shoot arrows! Just like Robin Hood in the movies!

Susan led him to a spot where the trees grew tight together. It didn't look like there was a way through, but then Susan stepped up next to one large and thick tree with lots of green leaves all over, and then stepped sideways and vanished.

Clint hung back, flabbergasted.

"Come on … … Clint!"

Taking two steps forward, Clint could see where Susan had gone. Hidden to the eye from the rest of the clearing, there was a gap in how the trees grew, just wide enough for a person to walk through. Holding his breath, Clint jumped through the space in the trees.

On the other side, Clint found a wide-open clearing with tall trees surrounding it. There were a few large rocks here and there on the grass, but other than that, the space was open. Overhead, the tail edge of the storm clouds drifted east.

Susan was on the other side of the clearing, moving old logs around. Clint ran over to her. "How did you find this?" he demanded. "It's so cool!"

Susan smiled down at him. She seemed younger when they were outside, not like an old lady at all. "Just after I came to Iowa, I was walking around and I came across this spot." She gave the log a final pat. "It reminded me a lot of— of a place where I grew up."

"It's neat," Clint said. "Can I shoot arrows? Please?"

"Of course you can." Susan led them over to the far side of the clearing. "The bowstring's tension may be too much for you to get a good pull on, but let's try."

First, she showed Clint how to stand, how to plant his feet apart on the ground, and how to balance his weight. By the time she was ready to put the bow in Clint's hands, he was nearly vibrating out of his skin with excitement.

"Try an empty draw," Susan said. "Aim, and pull."

Clint wrapped his fingers tight around the bow's grip and with his left, tried to pull back the string. It was hard and he accidentally let go of the string, making it _twang_ next to his ear. He rubbed the side of his face. "It's hard."

"It is," Susan agreed. "Would you like me to show you how it's done?"

Clint handed the bow over. Susan took it, then drew an arrow out of the quiver on Clint's back. She fit the arrow to the bow, went still for a moment as she looked at the target, then drew back the string and fired. The arrow sang though the air and buried itself in a log across the clearing with a solid _thunk_.

"Wow," Clint breathed. "That was so cool!"

Susan drew two more arrows from the quiver. The first one landed a few inches beside the other, then the second landed a few inches above that, in a perfect triangle. Clint's jaw dropped. He looked at the arrows, then at Susan, then back at the arrows. Susan took one more from the quiver. "Do you think I can land this one dead center?" she asked.

Clint nodded hard.

With a final draw, Susan sighted, then let fly. The arrow landed right in the middle of the triangle. As Clint gaped, Susan lowered the bow. "Not bad," she said mildly. "It's been a while since I've come out here. I was afraid my aim was getting rusty."

Clint turned to Susan, mouth still open. "That was so _cool!"_ he said again. "Can I try? Can you show me how to do that?"

Susan smiled down at him. "Of course," she said as she handed him the bow. "Just remember, it takes a lot of practice to master archery. Are you willing to work hard?"

"Yes!" Clint yelped. He bounced impatiently as Susan handed him back the bow, and helped him to fit an arrow to the string.

"Careful," Susan cautioned as Clint drew back the string. "Don't hurry. Just go at the speed you need."

Clint tried to do what Susan did, and focus on where he wanted the arrow to go. He let go of the string, but instead of flying across the clearing and hitting the log, Clint's arrow only went about twenty feet before hitting the ground.

"Aw, man!" Clint said.

"You need more force in your pull." Susan walked across the clearing to retrieve the arrows. Clint could hear a low murmur, like Susan was still talking, but she was too far away for him to make out the words. When she returned, he tried to look smart, like he had heard and understood all she said. She handed him the arrows. "Let's try again. Practice makes perfect."

"Okay." Clint braced his feet once again and got ready to aim. He was going to practice until he was good at archery, just as good as Susan!

They went on practicing for almost half an hour. By the end, Clint's arms ached and his back hurt, but he was able to get an arrow to go all the way to the edge of the clearing! In spite of his exhaustion, he protested as Susan took the bow away from him and made him hand over the quiver.

"I can keep going!" he said.

"You can, but you shouldn't," Susan said. She tightened the quiver strap across her chest. "You'll hurt yourself. This isn't wartime, there's no need to try so hard."

"But I have to get good!"

"And you will." Susan looked Clint full in the face. "You have your whole life to practice, Clint. Give your arm a rest, and you can try again tomorrow."

Clint ducked his head. He wasn't sure if there was a warning in Susan's voice, but he'd been on the receiving end of too many beatings to push his luck. He'd only been Susan's foster kid for a day, after all. "Okay," he whispered.

For a minute, there was quiet. Clint didn't dare look up. Then a branch crunched and Susan's feet appeared at the edge of his vision. He darted a glance up through his eyelashes. Susan was looking at him, and she didn't seem mad. Reluctantly, Clint lifted his head.

"It's going to be dark soon," was all Susan said. "How about we head back to the house and get dinner started."

"Okay," Clint said again. Neither of them moved.

"I think I'd better see if I can get you a bowstring with a bit less tension for you to learn on," Susan finally said. "We can work you up to a hunting string as you get stronger."

"Hey!" Clint flashed, his chin going out. "I'm plenty strong!"

"I know you are," Susan said. "But that's the thing about growing up. You get stronger every day, and that's not something that is best to have to rush."

"Fine," Clint said, the prickly feelings in his throat subsiding a little.

"Let's go." Clint fell into step behind Susan as the headed to the secret entrance to the clearing. Just as they were about to step through the secret gap in the trees, Clint spotted a little woven stick circle, just like the ones that hung on Susan's porch. He touched the tip of one twig, and it was warm to the touch. Clint immediately felt better.

"What is it?" Susan asked when Clint didn't immediately follow her.

Clint startled, then bolted into a run until he was back at her side. "Are you sure you're not a witch?" he demanded.

"I am very sure," Susan said. "Why?"

Cling shrugged. "I dunno. You talk about centaurs and fortune telling and all that magic stuff."

"Well." Susan put her hand on Clint's shoulder. "There's more to magic than that."

Clint made a face. "That's the kind of stuff a witch would say."

Susan's laughter floated down the hillside as they began to descend. "I promise you that I am not a witch," she said. "Now tell me, what do you want to do after dinner. Do you want to read?"

Clint looked up at the sky. "Does your TV work?" he asked hopefully. He had seen an old television in the corner of the living room, covered with books and dust, and he hadn't tried to turn on it on.

"Yes, although the reception can be scratchy at best. Why?"

Clint turned his face up to Susan. "It's Friday!" he said excitedly. "Can we watch Knight Rider?"

From the baffled expression on Susan's face, it was clear to Clint that she had no idea what he was talking about. "What's that?"

"It's a show, and it's so cool!" Clint burst out. All the way down the hill, and though most of the dinner preparation, Clint explained in detail why Knight Rider was amazing, with talking cars and explosions and stuff!

Susan listened to everything he said, and didn't tell him to shut up once, and then when he was busy stuffing his face full of spaghetti, told him about books that had awesome stuff like Knight Rider, and maybe they could find some in the library the next time they were in town?

Knight Rider was on at nine, and after the show was finished, Susan made Clint brush his teeth and go to bed, and Clint was so tired and happy he fell asleep in a few minutes.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, the room was bright. He jumped out of bed, scared he'd already missed part of the day, but the clock told him that it wasn't even seven o'clock.

He ran downstairs and skidded into the kitchen. Susan was at the table, drinking coffee and reading a book. She looked up when Clint appeared.

"Did I miss breakfast?" Clint asked, panting.

"Of course not," said Susan. She marked her place in the book with a teaspoon and stood up. "Do you want oatmeal today, or something else?"

Clint, who wasn't used to being asked about what he wanted to eat, stared at Susan.

"Oatmeal?" Susan said again. "Or eggs?"

"Can we have scrambled eggs?" Clint asked. "With cheese?"

Something in Susan's face eased. "Of course we can," she said. "What kind of cheese do you like?"

Clint considered. "The orange stuff," he said. "What about you?"

"I am very old, and have very few taste buds left," Susan said as she got up from the table. "I think I like blue cheese best."

Clint pretended to gag. "Blue cheese tastes like feet!" he exclaimed. "Hey, can I crack the eggs?"

Together, they made breakfast, and Clint was allowed to grate the cheddar cheese over his own eggs before they sat down again. Clint had just taken his first bite when Susan said, "We should probably have a conversation about the chores schedule."

Clint's teeth closed on the fork. He was yanked back to that very first day, when he'd been in his social worker's car and wondering how hard his new family was going to make him work. He slowly took the fork out of his mouth and made himself swallow. "Huh?"

Susan folded her hands in front of her. She hadn't touched her eggs. "With both of us here, I think we should both be contributing to the upkeep of the house."

Clint just blinked.

"You've already been doing that," Susan said. She was frowning now, and Clint knew he was doing something wrong but not _what_. "By helping with laundry, and you're very good in the kitchen, helping me last night and this morning."

"That's easy," Clint said faintly.

"You are very self-reliant," Susan agreed. "You are very good at helping."

"I like to help."

"What other things would you be able to help with?" Susan asked, and Clint's brain went blank. After a pause, Susan went on. "Would you like to help feed the cats, sometimes, and help me with Destrier?"

"That's easy stuff too," Clint said, still wary.

"How would you feel about making a chore chart?" Susan suggested. "I did that with my children when they were your age."

"Okay," Clint said. He felt trapped and he didn't know why. Susan was being nice, but Clint couldn't shake his worries.

Susan reached out for the notepad by the salt shaker. "How about we start off with just one week, and see how things go?"

Clint watched as Susan drew a grid, seven blocks, and then drew two more lines. She wrote the days of the week in the top line, then put _Susan_ and _Clint_ on the next lines.

"I'll feed the cats in the morning, if you'll feed them at night," Susan said, making notes. She glanced at Clint, hesitating. "Maybe we can do that together for the first night, all right?"

Clint dipped his head in a nod.

"And I'll make a note that we'll both help to make dinner."

Again, Clint nodded. He was braced now, ready for whatever else Susan threw at him.

"I do laundry on Mondays, so I'll put that down…" Susan wrote some more beside her name. "Hmm. One of us will have to go down to get the mail. Would you be comfortable with that? Two days a week?"

"Where's the mailbox?" Clint asked in a whisper.

"Down at the end of the driveway," Susan said. "We drove past it yesterday."

"Okay," Clint said. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. What else would she tell him to do? And what if he did it wrong? Would she get mad at him? Would she yell or hit him?

Would she send him away to the orphanage?

But Susan laid down her pencil and pushed the notebook aside. "That's quite enough to start with," she said. "We'll talk next week and see how things are going, all right?"

Clint nodded. He pushed away from the table and stood, but Susan's startled exclamation made him stop in his tracks.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "You haven't touched your plate."

"I'm going to do my chores," Clint said, confused, because that's how it was in the foster homes. You did your chores, and then you ate… and if you didn't do your chores, you didn't eat. Everyone knew that.

Susan was on her feet in an instant. "No, you have to eat breakfast first," she was saying. She came over to where Clint stood, her hands reaching out for his shoulders. Clint didn't flinch away, but for some reason, Susan went still, then dropped to her knee in front of Clint. "Clint, why are you shaking?"

Clint looked away. He was doing everything wrong and Susan was going to see that and know he was a dummy and send him away.

"Clint," Susan said. She took his hands in hers. "Darling, did I do something wrong?"

Clint shook his head. How could she do anything wrong? It was her house, and Clint just lived there as long as she wanted him to.

But she was looking at him real deep down, in that way she had the previous day in the forest. "Is this about chores?" she asked. Clint shook his head. "Is it about your breakfast?" Clint hesitated for only a second before he shook his head again, but it was too long. Susan squeezed his hands. "Clint, can I tell you something?"

"Okay," Clint whispered.

"I don't know anything about being a foster parent," Susan told him. "I know about being a biological parent. I had my children from day one, and I raised them up, so when they were your age, I knew all about them, and they knew all about me."

Clint nodded to let her know he was following along. That made sense.

"But you and me, we've only known each other for two days. That's not very long, is it?" Susan waited for Clint to shake his head before continuing, "We've only just met, and so there will be times that we might have some misunderstandings. Can I ask you to do something for me?"

Clint braced himself again. Here it came.

"When I do something wrong, can you please tell me?"

Clint stared at her, amazed. "You can't do anything wrong," Clint said. "You're the grown up!"

Instead of being reassured that Clint knew his place in the world as a foster kid, Susan suddenly looked sad, and very tired. "Oh, Clint, darling, you'll learn as you get older that every single one of us gets it wrong." She squeezed his hands again.

Clint shook his head. She didn't understand. "No, it's your house," he said. Why didn't she understand? "It's your house and you decide if I live here or not!"

"Clint—"

"And if I don't do what you say then you'll send me back," Clint went on quickly. He could feel himself shaking now, his legs all noodley like spaghetti. "I don't want to go to the orphanage, I want to stay here! Please, can I stay here?"

"Of course you can," Susan said firmly. She stood up and pulled Clint into a sideways hug. Clint wrapped his arms around her waist and held on. He felt wobbly all over. "You can stay here as long as you want, even if that's years and years."

"But what if I do something wrong?" Clint asked, his voice muffled against Susan's side.

"If you do something wrong, then we'll talk about it," Susan said. "And if I do something wrong, then we'll talk about that, too." Slowly, Susan guided Clint back to his chair and got him settled.

Clint stared down at his eggs, feeling just awful. He'd always tried to stay under the radar, at home and in his foster homes, by not causing a scene. And here he'd made such a fuss!

"Here." Susan handed him a wet cloth, and he took it to wipe his face with. He hadn't been crying, not really, but the cool cloth was nice on his cheeks. "Is your breakfast cold? Let's put this into the oven to warm up."

Clint sat at the table and watched Susan move around, turning on the oven, putting their plates inside. He felt just _terrible._

Susan put the kettle onto the stove, before sitting down again. She looked across the table at Clint, and he looked right back at her.

"When I was younger," Susan began after a long pause, "It was common for a young man such as yourself to be fostered by another family."

"Even if they still had family?"

"Yes, especially then," Susan said. "Such a young man would learn about the estate, and the business, and about fighting. Then, when they grew to their maturity, they would return home to take on responsibilities in their own family."

"Like what?"

"Like running the family estate," Susan said. "Sometimes they went on to college, to learn even more. Other times, they might apprentice to a master and learn a trade."

"What about girls?" Clint asked. "Did they get made to go foster too?"

"Not usually," Susan said, her mouth twisted up in a wry smile. "My sister and I, we learned responsibility and fighting on our own."

Clint nodded sagely. Girls were always the more responsible ones, that's what his Mom had always said.

"So when I said I would foster you, Clint, I knew what I was getting into," Susan said. She leaned over her folded hands, fixing Clint with a very direct look. "Is that okay with you?"

Clint considered. All that stuff Susan talked about, learning about the estate and about business, he had no idea what that meant. But he understood fighting, and he understood being responsible.

And he liked the idea of being in one place for a long time.

"Do I still gotta go to school?" Clint asked.

"In September, yes," Susan said without hesitation. "But you have the whole summer ahead of you here."

Clint considered some more. "Okay," he said at last. "Let's do it."

"Excellent." Susan reached across the table to give Clint's hand a squeeze. "Now, I'm going to make some tea, and we can get back to our breakfast, all right?"

"Okay." Clint sat kicking the table leg while Susan stood up. "And then chores after breakfast?"

"Chores after breakfast," Susan agreed. "Then you can go off and play on your own, how does that sound?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Work," Susan told him. "Careful, the plate is hot."

"What do you do?" Clint asked, picking up his fork.

"I'm an historian."

"What's that?"

"I look back at history and try to tell it in a way that will help people make not-so-stupid decisions." Susan sat down. "Do you like history?"

Clint shook his head. "All they tell us in school is boring history," he complained.

"If you're interested, I have plenty of not-boring history books in the library," Susan said. She sipped at her tea. "Now, eat up. We have a busy day."

Clint tackled his eggs, cheering up as he ate. Susan said she wanted him around for a long time, and that if he did something wrong he could still stay! And maybe she'd let him practice on her bow again that morning!

Maybe the day would be okay after all.

* * *

That week was the best one in Clint's life. Susan was working on a special project, she told him, and he was free to run around and do whatever he wanted, as long as he was back in for dinner.

So every morning, after breakfast and after they fed Destrier, Susan went into her office and Clint was on his own. Sometimes he read. He had his library books, and when he wanted a change he could go into Susan's library and poke around. Most of her books were boring and dusty, but some had neat drawings and some really cool stories about knights and heroes.

When Clint got bored of reading, he would go outside. He would say hello to Destrier, who ignored him, and then he would run off into the trees. He'd go up the hill of the forest preserve or down in the valley in the overgrown apple orchard and explore. He pretended he was a knight like in one of Susan's books, fighting bad guys. In among the trees, he saw lots of animals, like bees and squirrels and rabbits and foxes. Once, he thought he saw a bobcat, but it vanished before he could investigate closer.

When the sun started to get behind the tree tops, Clint headed back to the house. Susan would usually mock-exclaim as to how much dirt he had brought in with him, and send him upstairs for a bath before he could help make dinner.

In that first week, Susan took him out for archery lessons twice. She wouldn't let him have the bow all on his own, not yet – she told him that it was important that he have an understanding of the fundamentals before she would let him loose with a deadly weapon.

They went into town on Friday, to pick up some groceries and to exchange Clint's library books. He felt far more confident walking into the library in his brand new clothes, getting new library books, and handing over his new library card to check them out. He didn't see the ugly boys, which made him feel a lot better too. Maybe they would be in a different school than him in the fall, and he'd never have to see their ugly faces again.

Susan let Clint watch Knight Rider again that night. He had a hard time getting to sleep, first because the show had been so cool that he couldn't stop thinking about it, but then, later, he started thinking about Barney, and wondering where he was, and if he was okay. Barney was a big kid, two years older than Clint, and he'd be able to do anything he wanted, Clint just knew.

He wondered if Barney missed him, even a little.

A tear trickled down his cheek, then another. Clint rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. He wasn't going to cry about Barney. Barney had run away and didn't even try to take Clint along. Because Clint would have gone too. Him and Barney could have made it work together. But Barney didn't want Clint.

Clint lay in the darkness feeling miserable for a very long time before he fell asleep.

And he dreamed.

In the morning, he could only remember snippets of the dream. He'd been in a forest, much like the preserve up on the hill over Susan's house. There had been pools of water in among the trees, and Clint had walked among them.

There had been someone else there, too, but Clint couldn't remember who. That someone had asked Clint a question, only Clint couldn't remember what he'd said in reply.

Waking up from that dream had felt strange, and Clint felt strange all morning. But after lunch, Susan took him up to the forest preserve for another archery lesson, and all thoughts of his dream faded from his mind.

On Monday morning, just before lunch, Clint skipped down to the mailbox. There was a big package in the box, probably a book, Clint decided as he staggered back up to the house. He carried the mail and the package to the kitchen, dumped everything onto the table, then went to wash his hands for lunch.

Lunch was cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Susan let Clint polish off the bulk of the meal while she opened the mail. In between bites, Clint talked about reading _the Wizard of Oz_ , which was different from the movie, but that was okay.

After Susan finished opening all her letters, she finally turned to the package. Clint carried his empty plate and bowl to the sink, then hopped back to the table to see what it was.

"Finally," Susan said as she lifted a big book out of the paper wrapping. Clint squinted at the title.

"What's sign language?" he asked.

Susan set the book on the table. "Sign language is how to talk with your hands, not your voice." She opened the book. Inside on the pages were photographs of people with their hands up in different shapes. "It's used by people who are deaf, or can't hear very well."

"Oh." Clint's insides squirmed. "Why'd you need that?"

Susan turned to look at him. "Clint," she said, "Sometimes, do you have trouble hearing what I say?"

Clint looked down at the table, his heart pounding. Always, when he hadn't heard one of his foster parents, they'd called him stupid. He didn't want Susan thinking he was stupid.

"I thought that maybe you and I could learn a little sign language, so we can talk to each other."

"We can talk to each other now," Clint whispered.

"Yes, we can." Susan tapped the back of his wrist, and he looked up. "This is just another way."

Clint rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I can hear good," he protested. "I listen to everything you say, I promise."

Susan put her arm over Clint's shoulder, and he let himself lean against her for a few moments. "I know you listen very well," she said. "But I think that you have some problems with your hearing, and as soon as I get medical guardianship of you, we're going to visit an audiologist."

"I don't have problems," Clint said quickly. "I'll try harder!"

"Clint." Susan brushed the hair back from his eyes. "You know how some people wear glasses?"

"Yeah…"

"That's because their eyes need a little help in seeing. There are tools that can help you hear better, too." Susan was very solemn. "But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, would you like to learn a little bit of sign language with me?

"Okay," Clint whispered.

"Flip through the book and find a word for us to try, all right?"

Susan leaned back as Clint flipped through a few pages. He opened up to the Animals section of the books, and pointed. "How about horse?"

"Let's try it."

Together, they made the hand sign at each other. Clint felt a little silly, but it wasn't difficult. Maybe Susan was right, it was just another way to talk.

"Do you want to see if they have an entry in here for archery?" Susan asked, and Clint perked up.

Maybe sign language would be okay to try, at least for a little while.

* * *

July was a hot month. Clint spent most of his time outside. The best day of his life was the day that Susan gave him his very own bow and arrows to practice with. The bow was shorter than Susan's, and he didn't have as much trouble with the string. He couldn't fire as far as Susan did, but she reassured him that as he got stronger, they could swap in another string for him.

So Clint spent as much time as he could practicing. He'd roam the forest and the orchard carrying his bow, a knapsack on his back holding a book and a snack, so he could climb a tree and read his book when he wanted to.

Sometimes, Susan came with him, and they practiced archery together. Susan knew a lot of really neat trick shots, and for an old lady she was really spry.

Once, after Susan had shown him how to lean out of a tree and fire to the ground below, Clint asked, "How old are you?"

Susan's eyebrow arched. "I am fifty-four, young man."

"That's old."

This time, Susan just rolled her eyes. Clint giggled. He knew she wasn't mad. "So incredibly old," Susan agreed sarcastically. "Imagine what you would have said if I was sixty."

"That's practically ancient," Clint pointed out. "They put you in an old folks' home when you're sixty."

"Is that so?" Susan asked.

Clint nodded. "When you're sixty-five, you're so old you can't read books any more."

Susan sighed. "One of these days, you can tell me where you get this knowledge from." She put her arrows back into her quiver. "Come along, let's see how far you can shoot today."

 _Far_ , Clint signed, and grinned.

 _Excellent_ , Susan signed back, and off they went.

One day, Susan had to drive into town to pick up a package at the post office. She asked Clint if he wanted to go with her or stay home, and Clint, who was in the middle of a really awesome Hardy Boys book, said he would stay. After admonishing Clint not to touch the stove, Susan drove off.

Clint quickly finished his book. Energized, he got his bow and arrows and headed off into the orchard. The book had been so neat! There had been diamond smugglers, and Frank and Joe had been so smart!

Clint climbed up a rock and jumped off the other side. He wondered if the Hardy Boys ever did archery. Maybe he'd ask the librarian one day if there was a book on that.

Clint continued along the edge of the orchard, skirting the older apple trees and the wild beehive that was tucked into the old hollow oak tree. He climbed up the hill to a spot where there was a rocky outcropping from which he could see over the orchard below. He sat down, idly fitting an arrow to his bowstring. He pulled and sighted, focusing over the tip of the arrow for a target.

One particularly shiny green apple caught Clint's attention. He wondered if he could hit it from here. He held his string, feeling the wind on his cheek, the quiet of the day pressing in on him.

Then, before he could fire, a fuzzy grey squirrel climbed out onto the branch in front of the apple.

Startled, Clint nearly let his arrow fly. He lowered his bow, the arrow sliding from his fingers and clattering down the rocks below, out of sight.

He'd almost shot that squirrel.

He knew that some people went hunting; Susan had told him that she tended to go deer hunting in the fall, and he knew that hunting meant that you'd kill an animal for food.

But he'd never aimed an arrow at any live animal before.

It made his stomach hurt.

Slowly, Clint unstrung his bow and headed back to the house. He put the bow into the weapons closet, set his quiver on its hook, then went into the living room and sat on the couch, feeling awful. Lavaratus, disturbed from his mid-day slumber in the sun, crawled up into Clint's lap and lay in a sprawl. Clint put his hands on the black cat's back and sat there, feeling Lavaratus purr in his hands.

Susan returned home soon after, carrying a large box into the living room. "Did you finish … book?" she asked as she set the box down.

Clint shrugged.

Susan straightened up. "Clint?"

Clint looked down at Lavaratus. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Susan would think he was stupid. She hunted with her bow, and she'd probably think he was a giant wimp.

The couch dipped as Susan sat down. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

Clint shook his head.

"Is anyone else hurt?"

Clint shook his head again.

"Is anything broken?"

"No."

"Well then." Susan rubbed the top of Lavaratus' head. The cat mrowled loudly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Clint ran a hand down Lavaratus' back. "I went outside with my bow. To the orchard," he whispered.

Susan waited.

"I was going to shoot an apple. But then a squirrel got in the way."

Susan sucked in a breath. "Clint, did you shoot a squirrel?" she asked.

"No!"

Lavaratus hissed at the noise, unsheathing his front claws for a moment, before going limp again.

"I don't want to shoot anything!" Clint went on. His face was hot and all his skin felt too big for his body. "I just want to shoot targets and do tricks!"

Susan put her arm around Clint's shoulders. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to," she said. Her voice was quiet, but she was speaking right into Clint's ear so he could understand every word. "Clint, if you don't want to hunt with your bow, then you don't have to."

"I don't want to," Clint said. He was starting to feel a bit better, because it sounded like Susan understood what he was saying.

She wasn't mad at him.

"Okay." Susan patted his hand. "And I should have told you a long time ago, there's one very important rule to holding a weapon."

Clint turned to look at her. "What's that?"

Susan was very solemn as she said, "Never aim a weapon at a living thing if you're not willing to deal with the consequences of firing that arrow. It's not a trick and it is not a joke. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Clint said. He put his head on Susan's shoulder, tentatively, but she didn't push him away or tell him to stop. "I don't want to hurt anything."

"I know." Susan squeezed his arm again. "Would you like to help me unpack the new books?"

"Are they new?" Clint asked. "You never get new books. You get old smelly books."

"Old books aren't smelly," Susan said. "Let's see what's in this package, and then have some tea, all right?"

"Okay." Clint moved Lavaratus to the couch, and got up to get the scissors so they could unwrap the big box.

Maybe looking at new books would help him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts about the names of Susan's cats:
> 
> Taranus - a god of thunder  
> Andarta - a goddess of war  
> Sirona - goddess of healing and fertility  
> Lavaratus - a god whose name means "he who is sufficient"
> 
> Next chapter up on Saturday! Thanks for joining me so far on this little journey!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge of this is I’m writing a ten year old who had no insight into Susan’s emotional turmoil and I can’t figure a way around that because if anything, Susan Pevensie has become a stoic survivor who’s not going to bare her soul to her a ten-year-old foster son, no matter what happens. Consider that a failing of the narrative design, please, and come with me on this journey.

* * *

July drifted into August. Susan started teaching Clint how to ride Destrier, although Clint spent the first few lessons trying to figure out how to stay on top of the giant horse without getting dizzy.

Clint was reading his way through the books in the Decorah town library, even ones in the grown-up section. He and Susan started talking about school in the fall, where Clint would be going into the fifth grade. When Clint finally confessed how math class made him feel sick to his stomach, Susan sent away for some math workbooks so he could get ready in advance.

Clint was so relieved that he hugged Susan right there in the living room.

What he didn't like, however, was all the talking Susan did about going to the ear doctor. Clint didn't see what the point was, and besides, who needed to drive to Minneapolis when he could stay at home and have fun with archery and books?

Susan did not agree with his line of reasoning.

Still, the trip to the big city was delayed as there was some paperwork that needed to happen with Child Services. Clint dreaded the idea that he'd have to talk to his social worker again, but Susan said that most of it could be taken care of over the phone, and that he shouldn't concern himself.

Clint took what he could get.

Susan was working on finishing up some big project, so outside of riding lessons and meals, Clint was on his own for most of the first week of August. Sometimes, when he felt lonely, Clint took a book into Susan's office and read there while she worked. It was nice, to be quiet in a room with someone else.

Late afternoon on a hot Thursday, Clint was dangling out of the oak tree in the front yard when Susan emerged from the house, dressed for town.

"Clint!" she shouted, and Clint fell out of the tree.

 _Hi,_ he signed as he bounced to his feet.

"I'm … … town," Susan called, walking to the truck with her arms full. Clint ran across the yard to open the door for her. "Thank you." She dumped the package onto the front seat. "Do you want to come with me? We can get dinner." She finger-spelled, _pizza_.

Clint flung his arms up. "Yes!" he exclaimed as he dashed around to the passenger side of the truck. "Pizza!

Susan shook her head. "Do you want to practice your signs while I drive?" she asked while Clint buckled his seatbelt.

 _Yes,_ Clint signed at her, and then they were off. The drive was short, with the windows down and the sun baking the road. Clint was hot and dusty and very, very happy.

After a stop at the post office, Susan took him to the pizza parlour, where they ordered a pepperoni pizza and Clint got to eat two slices all by himself before admitting defeat, and Susan packed up the rest of the pizza to take home.

The drive was quiet. Clint was full and tired, but the heavy weather kept catching on the edges of his attention. On the horizon, the sky was thickening to clouds.

When they got home, the shadows were growing long. "Go inside," Susan said. "I don't like the look of that sky. I'm going to put Destrier away."

Clint dashed into the house with the pizza box in his hands. He stashed it in the fridge, said hello to the cats in the living room, then went back onto the porch. The wind was starting to pick up a bit, making the twig charms tied to the porch ceiling sway in the breeze. The clouds in the sky were weird shapes. Clint didn't know if he should be worried. He'd been in tornadoes before, in town, but here they were far away from anything.

Clint wondered if the house had a storm cellar, like in Wizard of Oz.

He sat and waited until Susan emerged from the barn. She joined him on the porch steps and gazed up at the sky. "It will probably rain," she said after a bit.

"Will it be a tornado?" Clint asked.

Susan shook her head. "Not yet, if at all. The conditions aren't quite right."

"Okay." Clint looked out at the horizon. "Hey, it's windy."

"Yes, it is."

Clint turned towards Susan. "Can we practice shooting?" he asked. "So I can see how wind affects my shot?"

Susan hesitated.

"Please? _Please?"_

"Not too far from the house, in case the weather turns," Susan said after a minute, relenting. Clint bounced to his feet and bolted into the house, digging in the weapons closet for his bow. Susan was right behind him, reaching for her bow and her quiver, which held sharper arrows than Clint's did. "Only a few shots," she said as she slung her quiver over her shoulder.

"Sure thing!" Clint ran out of the house and ran a circle around the oak tree by the time Susan stepped down the porch stairs. "Hey, let's go!"

 _Wait,_ Susan signed. "Eyes on me at all times, understand?" she said when she was close enough for Clint to hear her. "If you hear thunder, or I give you the sign to get down, do it, all right?"

"Okay," Clint said as he bounced along at her side. "Why?"

"Because sometimes lightning can strike when the weather is like this," Susan said. "We're not going to high ground, but one can never be too careful."

Clint saluted.

They went around the barn to the bottom of the hill where the forest preserve began, and set up to aim at an old fallen tree. The light was still good, outside of the trees, and Clint was soon shooting fast and furious. They had to stop several times to gather up the arrows, and Susan made Clint pause often to talk about what to do when faced with the uncertainty of variable wind speeds. So engrossed were they, that Clint didn't notice the sky growing dim around them.

Finally, as Clint was hunting through shadows for one last arrow, Susan said, "How did it get … late?"

"This is fun!" Clint said, standing up with his arrow gripped in his hand. "Do you—"

His words died sharply in his throat. There was someone standing in the shadows of the trees at the bottom of the hill, a dark shape still and watching them.

Susan spun around, drawing an arrow from her quiver to slap against her bow in one quick motion. "Who's there?" she demanded.

For a moment, nothing moved except the wind. Then, the shadow detached itself from the tree, and stepped into the failing light.

It was the girl Clint had seen in the clothing store, all those months ago.

In that moment, Clint was only confused, but then he heard Susan's cry and she staggered, her bow going down as if she no longer had the strength to hold it. " _Lucy?"_

The girl turned and walked back into the dark forest.

"Lucy!" Susan yelled, and ran after the girl.

Fear and apprehension gripped Clint's stomach. He didn't want to go into the forest at night, where it was dark and there might be big cats hiding behind trees.

But he couldn't leave Susan alone.

Heart pounding and his breath in his throat, Clint ran after Susan.

The girl was still walking away, but she was moving so fast that Susan hadn't caught her. Fear cramped Clint's stomach. Maybe the girl was a ghost! Or a witch! Maybe she wanted to hurt them!

Clint made himself run faster. No one was going to hurt Susan while he was around!

Finally, the girl stopped walking. Susan crashed to a halt and Clint made it to Susan's side without falling over. He could hardly hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears.

"… … Lucy?" Susan was saying, her shoulders hunched, shaking.

The little girl looked at Susan. Her hair was perfectly still, even though the wind was blowing harder now. It was like she wasn't even there.

"Are you Lucy?" Susan demanded. When the girl still didn't answer, Susan's grip tightened on her bow. "Who's doing this?" she shouted up at the sky. "Aslan, is that you? _Aslan!_ "

A rumble of thunder rolled through the air. Clint crouched down, wary of lightning, but Susan didn't move. She was staring at the girl with so much wild anger in her eyes that Clint was afraid.

"You don't get to do this!" Susan yelled, her voice cracking with the force of the words. "Aslan! You don't get to take my family away and abandon me and then _do this!"_

"I did not abandon you," came a new voice. Clint jumped and spun around. He nearly passed out in fear. There was a lion in the shadows right behind them! A huge lion, even taller than Susan, and it was right there, and it was…

Wait. It was talking?

"You took my family away!" Susan shouted. She wasn't at all surprised by the appearance of a talking lion, and Clint didn't know what was going on. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in the truck on the way home.

Maybe this wasn't real.

"It was time for them to move to the next part of their journey," said the giant lion. He walked slowly in a circle around Susan and Clint, over to stand beside the silent girl. "You once understood that."

"When?" Susan demanded. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and Clint's chest hurt when he looked at her face. "When did I understand that? _How_ could I understand that?"

"Susan."

"You took everyone!" Susan went on, her voice raw. "Lucy, Peter, Edmund, our parents, everyone!"

"That was a train crash that took them, not I," the lion said. It settled down next to the girl. "Death comes to everyone in the end, Susan. Even to Narnia. Even to me."

Susan screamed, a ragged, terrible sobbing. Clint had heard a sound like that before, from his Mom on the bad nights when his Dad was in a rage and hitting her. Before, when Clint had heard those sobs, he had been just a little baby and had never been able to stop Dad from hurting Mom.

But he wasn't a baby any more. He was ten years old, and he had a bow and arrows in his hands, and he would do anything to stop that big talking lion from hurting Susan so much.

Taking a firm grip on his bow, Clint put the arrow to the string, and stepped in between Susan and lion. "You gotta stop," Clint told the lion. He was so scared his whole body shook, but his aim was true. "You gotta go away."

"Clint!" he heard Susan gasp. The lion, on the other hand, just stared down at him with somber eyes.

"Would you fire on me, young Clint?" the lion asked.

"You're hurting Susan," Clint said stubbornly. His knees were shaking so much he was afraid he'd fall down. "You can't do that. You gotta stop and you gotta go away."

"Clint," Susan said again. She approached him from the side, her hands outstretched. "Clint, put the bow down. You can't shoot Aslan."

"Yes I can," Clint said stubbornly.

"No," Susan said. Very gently, she touched Clint's hand. "Give me that arrow, Clint."

Never taking his eyes off the lion, Clint took the arrow off the bowstring. Susan removed the arrow from his fingers, then wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Clint held on to her with all the strength he had left in him.

"Would you have fired on me, to protect Susan?" the lion asked again.

"Yes!" Clint burst out. Susan's hands were warm on his back, and she was shaking too.

"You are wise and you are brave," the lion said. "A bravery beyond your years, hard earned, and with a good heart."

Clint, however, had no time for compliments from talking lions. "Are you going to eat us?" he asked.

"No," the lion replied.

"Why are you here?" Susan asked. "It's been over thirty years! Thirty years since everyone died, since Lucy—" Susan broke off again. "And that there, that's just some ghost, that's not my sister! Why are you doing this?"

The lion sighed heavily. Lightning crackled across the sky, then the rumble of thunder vibrated through Clint's bones. "For every ending, there is a beginning," the lion said. "Everything ends, but there are always new beginnings. But sometimes… it is needed that someone remains, to witness. To remember."

"Remember?" Susan echoed. "Is that… is that what I was? Someone left behind to be your _witness?"_

"That is not what happened," the lion said. "Your brothers and sister, Susan, they were needed elsewhere. You were needed here. You still are."

"How dare you tell me that!" Susan exclaimed, shaking. "They were needed too! _I_ needed them!"

"Their deaths were not a choice," the lion said sadly. "Narnia was ending. It took its kings and queens with it."

Susan said a very bad word. "And what about me?"

"You were once a queen of Narnia, but when you returned to this world, you became a part of it," said the lion. "Here is where you belong, Susan, and here is where you do good."

"Go away," Susan said, voice ragged. "Take your ghosts and go away. If I'm to be part of this world, go away and leave me to it."

The lion bowed his head. "I did not come to bring you pain, Susan," he said. "I have come on a very important purpose, and my business is not yet finished."

"What do you want?"

"I have a very important question for this boy." The lion turned its large yellow eyes on Clint, and Clint flinched back. "Clint."

Clint clung to Susan. "What?"

"There is a new world, fresh and green, that needs a champion. I have come to ask if you would be that champion."

The words didn't make any sense. He'd heard them all, but they didn't make any sense. "Huh?"

"Aslan, no!" Susan exclaimed.

"The question is posed to Clint, Susan, not to you." The lion shook his mane. "Clint, would you like to be a champion? A hero? A king?"

"Um." Clint didn't know what was going on. "I guess so?"

"Would you come with me, and be that king for a new land?"

Clint looked up at Susan. There was panic and sadness on her face, and Clint thought about all the times she'd said that he could stay with her for as long as he wanted. "Can Susan come?"

"No," said the lion heavily. "As I said, Susan is of this world and—"

"Then no," Clint interrupted. He held Susan tight. "She said I could stay with her forever, and she'd never send me away. I don't want to go away! I want to stay with Susan!"

"You could do so much good," the lion said. "Help people."

"No!" Clint said again. He had read enough stories about not-entirely-helpful gods to know a trap when he heard one. "I'm staying with Susan!"

The lion let out a low grumble, and lightning flashed, blinding for a moment. "If that is your choice, then that is your choice," the lion said. He stood tall and huge against the darkness. "It is what we do with our choices that matter." He looked at Susan. "Do you have anything to ask of me, Susan?"

Susan put her hand on the back of Clint's head. "Please take that ghost of my sister away," she said faintly. "I've lost too much, I can't look at her and remember her like that, not now."

"If you had the chance to say goodbye to the real Lucy, would you take it?" the lion asked, and Susan nodded, new tears spilling down her cheeks.

Just like that, the motionless girl at the lion's side faded into mist and a whole new person appeared in her place. She was taller, older, with long golden hair and flowing clothes that moved in the wind. "Susan?" the young woman said.

"Lucy," Susan said, and let go of Clint. She took the three steps across the clearing to where the young woman stood, her arms outstretched, and they embraced. "Lucy, I've missed you so much."

Lucy rested her head on Susan's shoulder. "Susan, I think about you so often," she said. "I wish you could be with us. But Aslan tells us that you have much unfinished work here on earth." Her pale eyes fixed on Clint. "I know you will join us, one day."

Susan pulled away from the young lady, cupping her face in her hands. "I love you, all of you."

Lucy kissed Susan's forehead. "I know." She smiled at Susan. "Now, I believe this young man needs you."

Susan held out her hand to Clint, and he ran forward to take it. "Is this your sister?" Clint asked, agog. "I thought she was dead."

"Death is just the start of a new adventure," Lucy said. Her touch was warm against Clint's cheek, warm like the stick charms over the porch at home. "Susan is very lucky to have you."

Clint stared at Lucy. He wanted to ask her what it was like, being dead. He wanted to ask if his Mom was okay. But all the words stuck in his throat and he felt sick, so he just held onto Susan's hand as tight as he could.

"I have to go," Lucy said, pulling away from Susan.

"Lucy, wait," Susan said, but Lucy was already moving back towards the big lion. "Aslan, just a little more time—"

"You already have had more than is allowed to any other," the lion said. "The dead belong in their world, and the living in theirs. You will see them again, one day."

"Aslan—" Susan tried again, but the lion turned its back on them, as did Lucy, and together they vanished into the darkness.

Clint stared hard into the shadows, wondering what had just happened. People didn't just disappear like that! And lions didn't talk, and little girls didn't turn into grown-ups in an instant.

And Susan didn't cry.

But now it was just the two of them in the dark, him and Susan, with the wind howling all around them, and Clint was so scared and so confused he didn't know what to do.

More lightning punched across the sky, illuminating the woods for a moment. Thunder boomed hard a second later, making Clint duck instinctively.

Susan said something that Clint couldn't make out through the ringing in his ears. He blinked at her, but she was just a shape in the darkness.

Then Susan was putting her arm around his shoulders and drawing him in close. "… … back … house," she said into his ear, and he nodded in relief.

They were going home.

Susan paused for a moment, bending down to pick something up. Clint jumped as Susan pressed something against his hand, but it was just his bow, which he had dropped. Then she was guiding Clint through the trees down the hill. He hadn't realized how far they had run; but now he realized they were almost at the top of the sloping hill. Clint was able to see in the darkness enough to make out the gaps in the trees, and Susan was surefooted as she pulled him along.

It took them so long to get down the hill that the ringing in Clint's ears started to ease off, only to have howling wind take its place. Eventually, they reached the edge of the forest. Susan didn't let Clint walk across the field to the house, but led him along the edge of the trees until they were at the closest point to the house before making a break across the open space.

The door was still unlocked, and Clint burst through it into the warm, bright interior. Susan was right behind him. Clint kicked off his shoes on the way to the weapons closet, where he unstrung his bow and stashed it away on its hooks in a matter of seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to look at it right then.

When he emerged, it was to find Susan standing at the closed door, her forehead pressed against the wood. Slowly, Clint edged around so he could see her face. She wasn't making any noise, but tears were still sliding down her cheeks from her closed eyes.

Clint didn't know what to do.

Urgent meows drew his attention. Andarta and Lavaratus ran out of the living room, winding around Susan's feet, meowing insistently.

"It's okay," Clint told the cats. "We're okay."

Susan turned around, wiping her sleeve over her face before opening her eyes. "Yes, we are," she said as she looked at Clint. "Clint, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Clint said again, because even thought he had no idea what she was talking about, he didn't want her to think he was upset. "Where are Taranus and Sirona?"

Susan looked at him for what felt like a long time. "They're more scared of thunder," she said at last. "They're probably hiding in the laundry room."

"Should I go get them?"

"No, you can let them be." Susan pushed off the door. "Let me put this away, then we can go have a nice cup of tea."

"I'll make it!" Clint said, jumping at something to do. He ran into the kitchen and right to the stove, grabbed the kettle and took it to the sink to fill with water. He was in the process of staggering back to the stove with the heavy kettle when Susan entered the room.

"Clint?"

"I've got it!" Clint exclaimed. He put the kettle onto the burner, then carefully turned the knob, waiting for the gas to catch on the spark before turning the knob up all the way. "You can sit down, I got this."

He had watched Susan make tea so many times that he knew where everything was. This was what he knew best how to do – when his Mom had been sad after Dad blew up, Clint would always get her some water so she would feel better. And if it had worked for Mom, maybe it would work for Susan.

Hauling his step-stool over to the counter, Clint pulled the tea canister off the top shelf, and jumped down. Susan was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching him with red-rimmed eyes. "Clint."

"I got this!" Clint insisted. The teapot was in the centre of the table, and Clint climbed up on his chair, both hands wrapped around the tea container. "I can take care of you, I promise!"

Susan stepped forward to take the tea away from Clint. "Sit down," she said.

"No, I can—"

"Clint," Susan said, and her voice was so strong that Clint sat down with a bump. Susan pulled a chair around and sat as well, facing Clint. "You don't have to take care of me. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Clint whispered. Susan's face was very serious and Clint felt his stomach ache with worry. Was she mad at him?

"A very strange thing happened," Susan went on. "Do you have any questions?"

Clint wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Would she be mad at him if he asked about the lion?

Susan was just looking at him, so he took a deep breath. "I didn't know lions could talk."

Susan nodded. "Sometimes, they do."

"And was that really your sister?"

Susan's forehead wrinkled and she looked like she was about to start crying again. "I think so, yes."

"But you said she was dead."

"She is dead." Susan put her hand over her eyes for a moment, then sniffled hard. "Lucy died a very long time ago. I don't know why Aslan brought her here, tonight. I don't know… I don't know if I'm glad or not."

"Who's Aslan?" Clint asked. The name felt weird in his mouth and he didn't like it. "That big lion guy?"

"Yes." Susan reached out to brush the hair back from Clint's face. "Clint, I want to tell you a story, one that may sound very strange and more than a little make-believe, but it's true. Can I tell you?"

"Okay," Clint said immediately. He would say anything to make Susan feel better, and if she wanted to tell him something and it didn't make her cry again, then of course he would say yes.

Susan let out a long sigh. "All right. Remember how I told you that I was sent to the country during the war?" Clint nodded. "I was twelve, and my older brother was named Peter, and my younger brother was named Edmund. Lucy was the youngest. She was nine."

Clint curled up in his chair as Susan told him how the house they'd gone to was very big and very empty, and how they spent all day exploring, and how one day Lucy came to them with a story about finding a whole other world inside of a large wardrobe.

"What's a wardrobe?" Clint interrupted.

Susan stood up. "A wardrobe is like a closet, but it isn't built into the wall," she said as she walked over to the stove, where the kettle was just beginning to boil.

"Did you go see if Lucy was right?"

"We did." Susan brought the kettle over to the table, poured boiling water into the teapot, then put the kettle back on the stove. "And the only thing in that wardrobe were old fur coats."

"Oh," Clint said, slumping back in disappointment. So far, this story wasn't strange or make-believe at all.

"Then, a while later, we were playing again and Lucy came back and told us that both she and Edmund had been to this other world together. But Edmund said that it was just something they made up." Susan shook some tea leaves into the pot, not bothering with a spoon. "Lucy was quite upset that no one believed her."

"What happened next?"

"Well, this was a very old house, with a lot of history, so sometimes there were tours of people who came through." Susan stood again, going to the fridge. She returned with the milk bottle. "One day, we were in the wing of the house where the wardrobe was, and we got trapped by the tour and we had to run and hide in the wardrobe. Only, this time, at the back of the wardrobe was a snowy forest."

Clint eyed Susan, wondering if she was making fun of him. "In a closet?"

Susan rubbed her eyes. "The wardrobe was a door," she said. "On the other side of that door, was Narnia."

The way Susan said _Narnia_ sent a thrill of excitement down Clint's spine. It sounded full of adventure, like Camelot, or Middle Earth!

"We each got a fur coat from the wardrobe and went to explore, because it appeared that Lucy had been right. We went with her, to a place she said she had a friend, Mr. Tumnus. He was a faun. Do you know what that is?"

Clint wrinkled his nose. "A baby deer?"

"No. A faun has the body of a man and the legs of a goat."

Clint wrinkled his nose even more. "That does sound make-believe."

Susan pulled the teacups over towards her. "That's just the beginning. Do you want me to go on?"

"Yes please!"

Susan continued with her story, about how they met talking beavers, and Father Christmas, and how her brother Edmund ran away to help the evil White Witch. She poured tea, and talked about how they met Aslan, and how there were battles, and how Aslan died and came back to life, and how they got Edmund back from the White Witch and then there was a really big fight and lots of the talking animals died and then the White Witch died too and Aslan made Susan and her sister and brothers into queens and kings of Narnia.

Clint scarcely noticed what he was drinking, as he listened to Susan's story of how they ruled Narnia for fifteen years, fighting battles and helping people, and growing up, then how one day they were riding after a white stag and all of a sudden they were back in the country house, children once again.

"Wait, how come that happened?" Clint protested.

Susan's lips twisted up as if she had tasted something sour. "I don't know. Aslan later said that our time was over in Narnia, so maybe he had other plans."

"That's not nice," Clint said indignantly. "People shouldn't trick you like that!"

Susan put her hand over Clint's. "You're very right," she said.

But Clint wasn't done. There was a burning ball of anger in his stomach, and he didn't know why. "When you have a home, people shouldn't take that away!" he said, moving restlessly in his chair. "Aslan doesn't sound like a nice guy!"

Susan moved her chair closer so she could put her arm around Clint's shoulders. "You have a home, Clint," she said in his ear. "And no one, no one at all, is going to make you leave. I promise."

Clint leaned against Susan, the anger in his stomach melting away into fear. "I don't gotta go be a hero in some land all by myself?"

"No."

"And I can stay here with you?"

"Forever." Susan squeezed Clint's arm. "And no one's going to take you away. Not Child Services, no one."

Clint closed his eyes. "I want to stay," he whispered.

"Good." Susan kissed the top of his head. "Now, do you want to have a snack before bed?"

"Can you tell me more story?" Clint countered, pulling away to look at Susan. "How come your sister's a ghost?"

Susan flinched. "I don't know," she said heavily. "I don't know why Aslan brought her here, and I don't know why he came for you."

Clint, however, had been thinking about that last part. "I think the talking lion guy got mixed up," he said. "He musta thought I was some other boy."

"What do you mean?"

Clint shrugged. "I'm not a hero or a champion, like in books," he said. "The talking lion guy musta thought I was some other boy who was all those things."

Susan was so quiet and so still that Clint got a little worried. Had he said something wrong?

Finally, Susan took a deep breath. "Can I tell you what I think?" she asked. Clint nodded. "I think that you are very strong, and very brave, and a very determined young man." Clint squirmed. "And I think that you have had a really rough time in your life, and instead of becoming mean and bitter, you became kind."

Clint's eyes were burning. He _had_ had a rough time, with Mom and Dad dying and Barney running away and leaving him alone. "I don't want to be mean," was all he could say. "I want to be nice."

"And you are." Susan tapped the very tip of his nose with her finger. "Now. Do you want a snack?"

"Yes please," Clint said quickly. "Can I have more pizza?"

While Clint chewed on pizza, which was still really good even though it was cold, Susan went to check on the cats. She returned just as Clint was starting on a second slice out of the box. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep?"

"Maybe," Clint said with a full mouth. "Will that lion guy come back? Can he come in the house? Can I sleep with my bow?"

"No, no, and no." Susan poured herself more tea. "That's the thing about Aslan, Clint. He doesn't come back."

Oh, that was good. Clint finished his pizza crust with a light heart. Susan was watching him carefully as he stood up. "Can I sleep in the living room?" he asked hopefully. "With the cats?" And closer to his bow, but he didn't way to say that when Susan had already said no.

"All right," Susan said. "But get into your pajamas and brush your teeth first."

Clint raced upstairs. He quickly changed out of his dirty clothes and pulled on his pajamas. He brushed his teeth in record time, then ran back down to the main level and into the living room. Andarta, Sirona and Lavaratus were all curled into a ball on the couch. Clint plopped down beside them and pulled the light blanket over his legs. "Good night!" he called to Susan.

She came into the room a few minutes later. "Not even going to turn out the lights?"

As Clint was feeling very wide awake after all that tea and pizza, he shook his head. "I'm okay."

"All right," Susan said. She straightened Clint's blanket. "Do you want to hear another story? About the second time we went to Narnia?"

Clint snuggled down on the sofa, letting Sirona curl up on his tummy. "Sure," he said. "How come you went back after Aslan made you go home?"

"As with the first time, it was not my idea," Susan said, sitting down in the large armchair next to the sofa. "Now, listen up, and I'll tell you all about what happened when we found ourselves in the ruins of what had once been Cair Paravel."

Clint stared at Susan, raptly listening to her every word. He still didn't know if he believed everything she as telling him, but he had seen a big talking lion that very night in the woods, and Susan's story made as much sense as anything else.

There was something in the back of his mind, something he had to think about, about ghosts, and about Susan's sister Lucy coming back from the dead, but he was too wired to think of it just then. Maybe one day, he'd take the ideas out and play with them. Maybe one day when Susan didn't look so sad… or one day when Clint really felt as brave as everyone said he was.

Maybe.

One day.

For now, he was warm in Susan's house, with the cats around him and Susan sitting right there, and he was safe.

He had a home. And no one, not even talking lions, could take that away from him.

* * *

**_Epilogue_ **

"Clint, stand still."

Clint squirmed. His pants were itchy and his shirt collar was too tight. "How come I gotta wear this stuff?" he demanded as Susan combed his hair in the middle of the sidewalk in Decorah.

"Because today is a very special day," Susan said. She stood back, eyeing his head. "I suppose you'll do."

Clint made a face at her.

"Let's go." Susan turned, her pretty skirt fluttering in the wind as she walked. Clint hustled behind her, feeling all sweaty and droopy in the heat of the late August sun. He wanted to be at home, reading in a tree, not dressed in church clothes in town on a Thursday.

Soon enough, school would start and he'd have to go into town _every day_ and wear dumb school clothes and talk to dumb teachers and he didn't want to. But Susan said he had to go to school because he was smart and he had to learn more stuff, like history and chemistry.

Clint was pretty sure that Susan had no idea what happened in the fifth grade. He was pretty sure that fifth grade was even more boring than fourth grade.

They walked up to a building Clint had never been in before. A whole bunch of photographs showed in the front glass, sun-faded and old. Clint followed Susan inside, and gasped in relief at the air conditioning.

"Mrs. Pevensie!" called a voice from the back. "… on time!"

Clint stood at Susan's side, wondering who this guy was. He was old and had big glasses and had hair combed flat over a big bald spot, but he didn't look like he was mean. Still, Clint reserved judgement.

"The studio is all set," the man went on. "Just this way."

Susan gave Clint a look, and he sighed. He knew that expression. It was Susan's no-nonsense expression, and Clint knew better than to try anything. If he did, she'd just look at him like she was disappointed in him, and he didn't want her to be disappointed.

They went into a room with fabric draped in places, and various things around like a fake stone column, and a chair beside some flowers. "The young adult package has two types of poses," the man was saying to Susan over Clint's head. "One solo, and one as a family."

"Let's start with the family shots first," Susan suggested.

"Please, have a seat," the man said and turned away. Susan walked over to the chair and sat, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She raised an eyebrow at Clint, who hadn't moved.

"Don't you want to be in the photograph?" she asked, and suddenly everything fell into place for Clint. This must be a photographer's studio! He'd seen one once on Knot's Landing, when his foster mother was watching it and Clint was out of bed late.

"I've never been in a place like this before," Clint said as he joined Susan. "Why are we having pictures?"

Susan guided him around to stand at her left, on the opposite side from the flowers. "Because, I told you, I have photos of all my family at home." She twisted around to fix his hair. "And I thought it was time that I had a photo of you in my office. What do you think?"

Clint's eyes went wide. "Really?" he whispered. "A family photo? Of _me?"_

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Really." Susan was looking at him with very serious blue eyes. "Is that all right?"

"Yeah." Clint pressed his lips together for a moment. He wasn't going to cry, not really, but if Susan wanted a family photo with him, that meant they were family.

He had a _family_ , even if it was just him and Susan and the cats and Destrier.

"Okay?" Susan asked.

"Okay," Clint replied.

The photographer returned with his camera, which he set on the floor. "Here we go!" he said with lots of cheer. "Mrs. Pevensie, and…"

"Clint," Susan supplied.

"Clint, face this way, and, no, wait, Clint, step behind the chair. Not that far behind the chair. And turn. No, turn the other way. Hand on the chair back, and eyes open. All eyes, all open. And open, and open, and… smile!"

When the flash went off, Clint was smiling as wide as he ever had in his whole life.

He had a family, and a home, and he wasn't alone any more.

And he was happy.

_The beginning of a new adventure_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit me on [my tumblr](https://mhalachai.tumblr.com/).


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